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:
ah...sumptuous...brilliant..
I do understand words being on strike. I go through those periods too!! Well penned.
I can relate so well.
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.
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.
This is a superbly written poem!
And in the writing revealing the opposite of what it says, lol!
And in the writing a beautiful phoenix rises from the ashes.
Sometimes word or lined donot coem easily, but when they do, they creata a miracle!!
The is powerful...raw, painful, gripping. The words are no mess!
words, very strong words flow towards a new dimension.....
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
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...
Just get some words upon the page and then toss them (like a salad) and put them into some kind of order and...voila!!!
This is a potent metaphor for writer's block, Abin. The personification makes it immediately identifiable with atrocity!
..and yet so well written! :)
Post a Comment