Hell's Bell

Got no themes to write on, Got no poems to sell. I think my clergy has arrived, With the tolling of hell's bell. Random thoughts like shells fall, As I stand here like a broken wall. Brick by brick and inch by inch, Covered with moss and sooty stench. Such thoughts I cannot bind, In cages of words like a poet blind. Nobody sees the aching head, Bursting with agony of thoughts unread. A verdict as this is seldom passed, To a shooting star which burns to dust. Pages like blots rot in my head, Sleeping still as if comfortably dead. Thought I was the chosen one, To taste the mist and the morning sun. Cosmic fun is but so brute, Played by Gods with existence crude. Like a man, whom the distant Bedlam calls, Housing lost prophets and pierced dolls, I am lost between the paper and the head Reading scribblings of prophets at sinful sheds. Wanders thus, my third eye blind, Touching the walls of a pitch-dark mind. If a thought like a firefly does fly by, Dies the fire before the gaping third eye. Pierce my body with a thousand nails, And hang me on the cross of the grail. My brain still would be numb to pain, As it hangs impailed by the barren grain. Give me a touch, a smell or a tear, Give me the death of someone dear. Just pay the price which I'll hold as debt Taken to save a poet from death.