POEM 279: A SNEAK PEEK INTO A BARD’S MIND
With headlamps strapped to our heads
we search faces for muses,
strange faces become stranger faces,
words mask themselves in obscurity
leaving us with vague lines and forced rhymes.
With headphones plugged on our heads,
we lean painstakingly towards a cacophony,
as to decipher what voice is muse,
what demon to reuse,
but a stampede of voices fall, one against the other,
until we are lost connecting dots
for the labyrinths that we create
in brief moments of terrific brainstorms
…so much for just a poem!
she’s a breast of mystic metaphors,
thighs that form imageries we adore,
a beautiful array of abstract discourse,
the voluptuous chaos of man’s phallic discourse.
The writer’s mind is an endless dissection of truths,
an abyss where sanity bloom,
a haven where words are prettified perfections,
a brothel where bards flirt with words