Stillness envelopes the midnight hour
The moon dead glimmers on
Throwing pale shades on instruments and stationeries
The day's done therefore feign normalcy (to pretend)
Corpses shed their daily skins
Their facade, painfully branded
From their hair to toes
Now some sleep, few finally awake
Some reminisce,
A pine from the past
Some still create
They cry and are yearning
Oh madness, consume me
Turn me into art
I so dearly long Pray Les, the muses take
Let me die and become
Archive Jan'24
Just as Atmospherically and hauntingly beautiful this one is...almost like a nighttime sister to me...The phase of life which is more like quiet, eerie, and emotionally heavy, wrapped in stillness...yearning..nd a kind of creative desperation...There’s an aching, almost holy longing here... to be consumed by madness..to become art...ahh or to be transformed...even if it means destruction.
Anguish not if your writings do not bring you the recognition that you desire. Poems are like fine wine. They may lay dormant for ages before their bouquet blossoms as the result of their discovery by those searching through the dusty back shelves of the book stores of the future. It matters not if they were handwritten on the cheapest of papers or printed on the finest of stationeries and bound in leather volumes. Be they eloquent or be they in the many languages of the unschooled they represent the inner feelings of those in the past that took the time to share a precious gift and they may well stand the test of time.
as i try to write
this love poem
i notice
--the pink stationeries have
no more scents
--the silvery quill has
lost its magical touch
--beautiful words, suddenly
stopped flowing
and the main cause why
I can not finish it is you
you left without good-bye
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