Like wormwood these dreams
Sometimes you put them out in the sun
To soak and refresh
And then put them back in some damp corner again
Away from any usage.
You are the poet
You are the king of the damned
Is what makes you
You play alone
Fighting for the for the losers glory.
Everyone shall leave you behind
Out to eat up the world they are
Some even with their part time rhythmetry
They try to devour
All the world in it's quarry.
As far as folk memories go
It all started with your poetry
You began the story
With your thoughts and symbols
That made word pottery.
And now here you are...
Alone in the corner of your damp old room
Away from the gaily lights and festivities
And all that togetherness aside,
Facing life's hostilities.
They're celebrating the celebrities
The copycats, the pure idiot's idiosyncrasy
Those who are mere parasites
Of your clamorous earnesty.
But yet the world must wait for you
The primordial rebel
To come and reclaim the throne
That to you it belongs truly.
Cut down on your self publishing expenses
Those books don't earn you a dime
All that sacrilege put aside
You could easily afford a three time meal,
But proving wrong the idioms of the saints
You practice ‘dharma' in an empty stomach growling
You are the saint where all saints are folly
The original rebel
Indeed, dreaming suits the poet only.