When One Is Poetically Possessed
When one is poetically possessed,
Nothing like the truest rest:
For every braved forty winks
Whacks for new poems and resistance sinks!
One is very free to weep
But one isn’t snatching any sleep:
One’s Poetic Tormentors, a zillion number,
Obsessed with The Ecstatic no less The Sombre!.
You’re hailing your tormentors but with reluctance,
This act dragging to a crushing distance;
At God’s feet dropping respectful grudges,
Not as forgivable as sexual urges …
Only God Himself knows when it shall end,
For those spirits aren’t ready to bend;
When one is poetically possessed,
Sleep becomes one’s rarest guest.
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