Sunday, 29 June 2014

Finally, what you call a poem.

(Thank you Vikrant for suggesting a befitting title)

The question is to squeal.
The answer is to squat,
Don't I see the picture,
As I look back,

The tarrying leash of love,
The dallying on the dime,
The placid tune of rune,
And it evinced like a mime,

The Aphrodite I pictured,
Staring at my face,
The lull at the promenade,
The impasse at the end of my chase,

The livid fortunes,
The lambent dungeon,
The prolific promises,
Battered by the truncheon,

The quest of love,
The tryst of life,
All came to question my intent,
All came with questions rife,

The crestfallen part of me,
That churlishly did chide,
It was far less than an assignation,
From which ye shall hide,

Oh now I realized finally,
How foul I played,
Teeming right above me,
Rancidness is all splayed,

I questioned my conscience,
To the noes I beseech,
To the revile sunset,
I could only screech,

The tepid curiosity,
The anxiety and delirium,
The toxic reality,
And my own opprobrium,

I fought hard not to wither,
I guffawed on my inner faction,
My subservience to my intent,
And My craven traction,

I submitted to being reticent,
I got my angst checked,
I issued a missive to self,
I chose to genuflect,

I lost the cause midway,
Decided not to intercede,
I raked in the moment,
And chose to fitfully bleed,

She went away,
Had no modicum of doubt,
Left me alone,
Dejected in this rout,

Blatant oblivion looms over me,
Questions worthy of bullion,
How quickly it disappeared,
Life like a cotillion,

Her charms and her enigma,
I continue to breathe,
In that moment of nostalgia,
I continue to seethe,

There she is in her wiggly might,
Smiling and relishing the beatific rain,
All I would do to keep her happy now,
Is to keep my end of the bargain.

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