The melancholy night
Sings a tuneless lullaby,
in cacophony almost.
The madman crosses to the other side,
And whispers grave forebodings
To the dreams of tomorrow.
The man with swaying steps
Lingers for a while, in memory of an unfaithful mistress.
And in the cold, dark crescendo,
She stands forlorn,
Her bright lipstick pouring over
Like red wine from a spout,
While she waits for her man
In tainted solitude.
In the draught of her being that she has poured for him,
Shall she seek the jingle of coins at dawn.
For the life that is this death,
In the echoes of this silence,
Mankind shall rise
Like a phoenix.
With the morning Sun,
As we bow our heads in solemn prayer,
There shall be truth,
And we shall be whole again.
7 comments:
I shall certainly keep that in mind, Atindriyo, although wordsmith I am not by any stretch of imagination, and poet(ess) I only aspire to be.
To be very honest, this one gives me goosebumps whenever I read it...
Especially on rainy nights. And don't give a shit to my previous comment. That was plain pure shit...
This poem is really a poem...in the truest sense of the term
For more jokes like the previous one, feel free to contact me
nice :)
i came across this blog on a friend's blog....and read this poem....
the poem has a surreal feeling...almost haunting.....very well done....you have managed to capture the mood very well.....
this is out of my mind..
but yes i like the frame work of few lines you wrote..
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