The beauty that died in her anonymity
or the nest that lay broken in the silhouette
of her unnamed street
was the least of life's tragedies,
when they found how she had borrowed
moments of time inconspicuously
to wield her melancholy with flaming ink
and penned numerous poems with prose in between.
Tearing herself, she stitched each bit
to a lyrical verse or a sonnet’s theme
and on she danced in folds and crease,
licking dry lips to vitality,
humming by the light of a lonely lamp,
in the blank of a white plain, unfettered, she ran
smudging lines of fables with impressions of her pitch-black span,
With each line she vividly conjured her sorrow,
with each rhyme, as if a child,
she nurtured desolation’s horror.
But what remains a buried veracity
Is how many nights she burned like a moth,
or, how many times she fell like an ant.
Untainted, still, by her state's penurious capacity,
She wrote of things few, who dare, can.
And breathing her last behind her curtained keep,
they hear her now singing hymns of lachrymosity
as heartstrings weep,
as heartstrings weep.
This one’s a bit different from what I usually tend to write and since after I was done I liked it enough to share it here, biased as I maybe, I am not sure of whether it really is likable. Of course, it doesn’t matter either way, because as I said, I like it. 🙂
As for that brilliant image that I came across and decided to add — after asking for permission from it’s creator for its use — I usually refrain from attaching another artist’s work, given copyright issues and their flagrant misuse but this image spoke to me and added another layer to the story that I wanted to tell. With it, the poem works better for me. I hope it does for you too.
And I hope, wherever you are, you are staying safe and are committed to wearing a mask when you go out. 🙂