thats on the days of words absconding
or on the nights when muse had abandoned him
he built an elegy
over the ruins of his frail imagination,
parched pen and desolate paper.
He didnt waste the tragedy
of him being forsaken by letters
so he wrote letters to letters,
talking to vowels and consonants alike,
extracting pity from them,
dramatising his condition
that had been
He would put to display
the holes in his songs
and the torn hem of his prose
in the highlighted columns of
grossly consumed magazines.
Such was his greed to preserve himself
in a versified repository!
And how could one punish him,
he would romanticise any verdict!
Jail him in summer,
he would yield in autumn,
the ripe poems and numbing elegies,
he is exiled in winter
the spring boughs would arrive
laden with the ballads
of longing and separation.
Writing had neccesitated
his pursuits for black magic
and he knew this witchcraft
like an old blind man knows his staff.