Poetry

Mirth of the insane (a repost)

When love, that doesn’t remember the dawn,
forever smolders but refuses to burn,
when blemishes in time and space
reek of a festering eternity,
the enervated horizon manages to
shine with the grey shade of insanity.

Rambling on in the fjords of a bruised ego,
and the confounding shores of dusky scruples,
battling the waves of a rising conscience,
a shattered mast, a tattered sail, an unanchored life,
yet the despondent crew hang on to faith, undeterred,
intoxicated, by the dark bottles of insanity.

A quiver of nascent ideas waits for a story,
the mesmerizing past, the non-committal present,
a fairy land that longs for a scorching desert,
these crumpled notes in my recycle bin, on the floor,
once that craved for a closure, are exasperated,
as they seek solace in an edifying touch of insanity.

When the kiss of the lover’s lips seems cloying,
making love no longer douses the raging desires,
when the parched throats seek no wine,
and sips of the pinot evoke the same sweet faces,
when the gods start to seem too distant to fail,
and your prayers seem impersonal, and almost cruel,
guilt laden bliss is easier to endure, you feel,
in the soothing ignominy of insanity.

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