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.
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