POSTED 04/07/2018 15:57
When a poet wears a circlet o’er his neck
It could mean it’s a downbeat
It could also mean that he wants that restrictive aim
that has been willed for him to claim;
he is in his musing period
and he is in darn need of someplace cozy to scribble
So in want to evade distractions
He creates a comfortable porch in the guise of nods,
and moderately flees into introspection each time he gets an opportunity,
and dashes back – in milliseconds,
when there’s a call for response.
And when he’s caused to shram
Even with every try he’s made to think deep
He’ll be shamed within
But he’ll put on a sham;
Looking so occupied
So juiced up
But at that point he could leave you abashed,
and plea he needs to get home;
that he needs to get prepared for tonight.
And that tonight!
He’ll let his mind wipe off charades.
He’ll swing into that very thought that puts him in seclusion.
That coat of tumultuous feeling
that imps his mind and fetters his stride.
He’ll be his own muse,
which muses bemusement.
He’ll shed slimy, reeling liquids
that root its ills on tracks it makes on his face;
making wave to his chin,
rather than tears seeking thrills or enthrall.
The morose cascades has been his convenience –
Being solitary is like lyrics sung to him
So he would desert life – that there’s chunk in dearth.
He believes, and under his breathes and will
With all verve, that even after that night,
as long as he wears the circlet –
lone he will still be; leering to its lures and oddities
Solitude has always ossified him.
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