1. I wrote this poem about 2 years ago with Metallica's 'Fade to Black' covered by Apocalyptica playing in the background. The entire poem was written within the span of 1 play.
2. This poem can be found in various other places. I have a penchant for making myself visible.
3. It was submitted for the college magazine but was rejected because the PG in-charge couldn't understand it. Actually no one on the editorial board that year understood it.
4. It was untitled for most of its life.
5. I think 5 is just about enough you-should-knows.
When coffee became cold in its mug
And endless hours of staring
Failed to ignite a spark in the observant eye,
Programmed swaying to mindless music
And reading reprinted word
Have all failed in bringing her back.
A note struck on the violin, she's old
In an age where moments stretched on
Like millenia. Sad thoughts plagued
Like Black Death on her frail self,
If does adversity strengthen the mind,
Hers was stolid, but failing now
In finding that purpose that was hers
And hers alone.
On the trail of finding herself,
Bent and broken, lost in darkness,
Stringing chords to make melody
Soon started sounding stale.
Everything was already done before,
No words, no notes, no melody was new,
But it stemmed from her soul...
Perhaps sown there on purpose -
'Tis indeed better to sway the masses
Than break a nation of individuals.
Now an eternity later,
It was the masses and she,
Her pride, snubbed snobbery, audacity,
Wouldn't allow mob mentality.
Those sheets, which lay bare before her
But a few centuries ago -
Reams now could not quench that
Wild passion that had deserted her,
Words, new, flowed from her soul
On and on, knowing no day, no night,
No rules of the chimer, no diktats of repose,
On they ran on worn feet
Like reaching no end, yet satiation
In bleeding soles on the trail.
Sense is not the fellow of love,
And love in abundance filled her heart,
Overwhelming in ruby light
That banished the darkness which threatened
To envelop her again.
All this insolence against the System,
Why ? But for the sweet glory
Of self satisfaction.
"No need for wreaths and applause.
My spirit and my soul are my greatest audience,
And every true compostion will
Achieve their appraisal."
The coffee has gone bad in the mug.
'Tis time to stifle Life
Under the cloak of Sanity
(Donned again) heralded back into
The world which knows no Rebel by
Name of Hero. Heresy is not a mode of life,
Nor an offence unworthy of reprimand.
Breathe again darling, breathe again.