Pygmalion
Listen to poem:
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.
Copyright © Hound Of Poetry | Year Posted 2019
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