Tuesday, August 6, 2013

Apologia

The ministry of beauty is now off my hands
And foregone those wonders of sense.
Smeared by the oozings of unsealable wounds,
The air now is pungent with Hemoglobin smells
And smoke from the bonfire of skin.

Blackened to their core,
My words are on strike,
And locked out my workshop of hope.

Padlocked in times that are raped beyond rage
My sentences cringe amid funereal howls
And gather rather messed on my page.

16 comments:

sayan said...

ah...sumptuous...brilliant..

Mary said...

I do understand words being on strike. I go through those periods too!! Well penned.

McGuffy Ann said...

I can relate so well.

Brian Miller said...

wow...gritty...the smell of blood and burned skin...that is a rather distinct and brutal smell...ah on the words not coming as well...i am glad you found a few at least...smiles.

Sherry Blue Sky said...

Powerful, Abin : "and locked out my workshop of hope"....."in times that are raped beyond rage". I feel this way watching the news! A truly brilliant write.

Lisa A. Williams said...

This is a superbly written poem!

Rosemary Nissen-Wade said...

And in the writing revealing the opposite of what it says, lol!

Gemma Wiseman said...

And in the writing a beautiful phoenix rises from the ashes.

Vandana Sharma said...

Sometimes word or lined donot coem easily, but when they do, they creata a miracle!!

Karen said...

The is powerful...raw, painful, gripping. The words are no mess!

Sumana Roy said...


words, very strong words flow towards a new dimension.....

kaykuala said...

My sentences cringe
amid funereal howls

The writer's block is potent and it clamored out to escape. It does so with lots of shouts! Brilliant take Abin!

Hank

humbird said...

with writing words will group perfectly just like in your poem, but it said writing - not shelter, but escape...- we need proceed our emotions, feelings...

Timoteo said...

Just get some words upon the page and then toss them (like a salad) and put them into some kind of order and...voila!!!

Kerry O'Connor said...

This is a potent metaphor for writer's block, Abin. The personification makes it immediately identifiable with atrocity!

Margaret said...

..and yet so well written! :)