Wrapping old poetries.
I have spent some eighty nights
catching stars for filling voids
in my poems, dived deep into
the ocean to find pearly lexemes
for my wounded verses to heal.
I have fixed some broken poetries
with my quill, painted them new
with coloured ink of woven emotions.
I have written poems for my diary while
visiting a carnival at fairytales land,
I have painted tales of love lost in war,
character sketched demons of my mind,
built abandoned houses of memories,
witnessed my vault of hope getting emptied,
caressed the grief of my secret sorrows,
recited stories of fading city lights,
sang ballads of changing seasons.
Invited readers to my Quill-derland,
hummed nightly symphonies in silence,
sailed the wind in my poetry paper planes,
sipped poetries in solitaire at Café de poésie.
I remember how I selfishly overused poetry
and became a pauper in its city until
I reached the doorway to a storyteller.
I am a master defiant poet celebrating
arrival of September that hides bittersweet
emotions, engraved the memoirs of
my pain for evermore.
I have designed abstract pathway
of a wandering soul, decorated senses
in the insightful prose. I begged
December to bring poetries along the way
with tales of the brumous journey,
I borrowed metaphors from sunset
for writing my diving hopes a poem.
And wished the wind may carry my untold
poetries after the death of my soul and body;
tried rhyming my sonnet in vain.
I dipped my persona in oxymorons
while trying to escape misery through laughs
I awaited the last unhopeful night to arrive.
I feathered a quill to heal wounds,
collecting elixir words to soothe scars
only to journal a few mistakes to be
caught by a realisation that I wouldn't
know everything and how I must live
because every new day is a first time.
I have been poisoned by the ink,
slain by the quill while begging
words to either heal or kill me,
catching a disease of writing
endless poetry over the year.