Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Of poets

In bushels of bramble thorns
lies captured the stench
of scarlet roses. 
Bound with no escape
in sight the heavy 
breath of these scarlet roses.
Of hearts beating their
last beat they speak 
these darkened winds
on a starless night.
They are all choking 
on crashing waves of
submerged oceans and
drowning seas under the sky
of these starless nights.
It's time the poets 
abandoned it.
Banished it, burned it
and scattered its ashes.
Smeared it with ink and
rubbed it off every paper.
It's smudged, stained, tainted. 
It's a dirty word, this love.

1 comment:

virinder sabharwal said...

well thats new.. haha.. good