Velanji

His suppressed emotions coalesce into poetry.
Never tortuous,
his imagery is fierce like a tosa.

He is the sole listener to what he sings.
His lunatic blooms scatter in the moonlight.
Though his voice is shrilly as a peacock’s,
the lines are lovely.

He talks to his protagonist, questions her…
His passion is as genuine
as Wordsworth’s love of nature.

Can his virtuous verses exist in the modern world?
Not a celebrity,
he celebrates his lunacy in loneliness.

His god is never chained by any religion.
That Invincible Force permeates his prayer
and buttresses his forlorn hope.

Pre-death days fill his sleep with wonders.
There is none to mourn his death.
And this is a soothing thought
before the death rattle.

Now his still visage looks pleasant.
Death is another beauty as birth.

First published in The Literary Hatchet.