Pygmalion

As an aperitif to understand the essence of thought Blood of a young tortoise touched my lips Seldom as it is - pure ichor – I whisper’d in a trot Let me get drunk on it while deifying the lunar eclipse That is what I deserve, that is what I ought. Is loneliness a hook up with the animalistic self? Wearing an anorak to withstand the wind of banality In the midst of a blizzard of an entrenched life Giving the advantage to the senses of vitality, Not more than Dido ripping her heart with a knife. Give me the rise of an insurrection I dreamt about as a boy A rebellion that would let principles be a judge, This would surely deliver the desire for joy, Or an uprising of the loyalists that won’t fudge But will steer clear off temptations or a ploy. As a grey fakir I paint a picture into a smudge, Away from an aureate garden of gild Into a desolate dryness of a scorch’d land With my sole soul strongly willed And a single stroke of my angry hand. I wished to give tonality in sound and in colour While being smitten by the freshly cut grass All the riches will never appease the dolour As I stand next to a window made of the Venetian glass. Here I am, in justice I fall Being accused of playing Pygmalion Exalted to the throne of Gaslight and all Given the heart on the platter as a medallion Draining an amassment of turbulence From the cluster of words that smack the gob And remain in our ears as stubborn permanence And I run, and run, and run, non-stop.