Melancholy pierce the consciousness. Encompasses the whole being, tortures the soul, grab the only hope of being happy--later on, shrinks the soul into a dark pit--of pity, of despair.
Then it vents all its hopelessness in the lake of tears, brims it, as if downpour passed by, in a moment of time, to the point of asking justice.
Swarms of thick nimbus are heavy and
drifting
Conspire with grave Russian winds; fiercely
cool
Caressing winds, the morning clouds
in mourn
As though, when obsessed to dribble
‘pon pool.
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The stupor pool breath bits of
chilled water
The droplets wildly swelled went on
gushing.
Weary eyes and achy breasts in pool
linger—
Wailing, sobbing flash’ beside flirty
spring.
Blue moment: gushy brooks, drowsy
lakes
And dopey pool, mingle in the
pale palm;
The mid-curve, a pond—a rose sobs and
shakes
Nay, Faun's soft euphonies ever becalm.
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Who, in this planet got stout courage
ever?
Herculean strength he has, to pluck
the gloom
And tearing grief, of lonesome soul
by mere
Whisper to rose’ ears, for next rosy
bloom.
I aimed for a love poem. Such a disappointment when finished that I had nothing in my mind to exactly point out what title it should carry.
ReplyDeleteI feel bad when I wrote this kind of piece: without inspiration, no clear mind, most of all, imagination's falling so low. All systems plummeting down at high speed except intuition soaring up--kicking my ass to get a pen and to dash down something adrift and unknown.
I feel insurmountable difficulty--mind and emotions didn't existed. Prodding was the only one that pushed me up--like a powerful projectile hissing to an empty space.
Can you think a better title for this 'undesirable child of intuition'?