Figments
And he sure did not tiptoe in,
To whisper his charm.
Kindling a buzzing din?
Or a rustle fraught with harm?
Unbodied voices of delusion,
Screeching to trick,
One foot on cloud nine,
Shadowed by the Devil’s peek.
Pulling off the mundane apparels,
Draping my pale canvas
In squirts of colorful tubes.
Colors of fantasy?
Dreams? Illusions?
Cleansing one corner of my restless mind,
Mind? Or do we call it heart?
He has tapped figments,
Figments that had been long purring
And sleeping;
Plugging the voids in my mind,
Let’s call it - the hollows in my heart,
With that which we call,
Life.
|