Insanity Has Struck The Poet
By Fiza Pathan
Where does the ocean culminate
within the blood clot in my brain?
Where does the peal of the bell end
along the goose bumps of my rough flesh?
Insane I have grown in these passing hours
that I’ve accidentally slit a part of my throat
to fill a golden cup to the brim to drink.
I have been therefore sick in the hospital since
strapped to the bed like a prisoner of Zenda.
The valley beckons the poet
to be an ally to the wood nymph
and the storm sheds its thundering tears into my eyes
so dry with waiting and watching for a ghost.
Gigantic pools of blood fall drop by drop
upon the ICU floor below my red stained bed
─the shore of the poets baseless ecstasy
is hammering a nail into the palm of my being.
Hear me over the waters of blood
that drench my alcohol to overflow with thirst.
Hear me when the physician slaps to revive the poet
from a delirium worse than the curses of hell’s occupants.
The lamp dims and the sun shines,
but the poet lies dead upon the floor,
cut everywhere with the killers sharp knife.
Look and behold the shriek of the night
and the gong that beats in the dead graveyard’s paradise
─salted is my blood with the herbs of the druids of old
─hot is my blood with the stirring of madness,
that beckons me to a madman’s laughter.
Copyright © 2014 by Fiza Pathan
Image courtesy: Google images, Wikipedia, Wikimedia