It occurs to you out of the blue, when you are submerged in silence in the middle of a night, right when the owls fell into sleep, as the moon fade beneath a dark cloud. It starts along a feeble line with no rhyme, but it has to be painful. Not the mildest tingle you feel as you write a romantic piece about her memories. It's not the awe filled anguish as you write an ode, or the burn of the kindled passion as you inscribe a ballad. No, it's not the torment of an elegy, or the twinge of a sonnet. It is the crucifying pain at the bottom of the heart, deep rooted somewhere in the hinterlands. It soars up to your throat to become a lump. The surge of raw emotions may even fill your eyes, but you won't say a word. Nothing would describe it, no one could see it, still the intensity will eat your sleep. It occurs to you when all the shadows repressed in an abyss breathe out. All the dusky dreams, ghosts of unmet fancies, humiliations, deceptions, pretentions, prejudices, regrets and guilt. It needs a way out, years of solitude has made it restless. Your metaphors won't suffice to sketch something that equates to it's torture. Allegories and parables won't paint hues on it's agony, alliterations and assonances will not make it euphonious, it won't fall like a nursery rhyme. Yes, it'll have ironies, plethora of ironies. That alone won't make it a good poem You can't imprison that lines in meter, it will not soothe you with rhymes, it doesn't dance in a rhythm. Yes, it's not your usual poem, it's the worst one you'll ever see.
heartseaseThis is profound and brilliantly expressed
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