death of the poem ...

Yes, I have killed the poem.

It begged for mercy
yet ......

Do not blame me for this, but

blame the outside sun;

why does it have to be so scorching and scalding?

The cruelty of the summer Sun makes me angry.

Do not be upset with my mood-swings,

for it is the lunar tides that is responsible.

And if I appear to be whimsical,

and different from the rest of them, then

blame my zodiac sign and astrological array!

They all have written about you;

the slightly plump one, the one elderly,

the fair skinned one and the one with deep eyes.

They all have poured their passion

into rhymes and rhapsody.

Poems are now nothing unique,

nothing exceptional! It is as if

so many in different bodies

have made love to the same ideas!

So you see, I had to kill mine;

I am sorry but I did not have a choice,

for, I can never be just one among many.

I have killed the poem,

tearing apart the sentences

till the forlorn words got splintered

all around in sobbing bits and pieces.

I have murdered the images and the metaphors

and every simile and alliteration,

till they bleed and become insipid, lifeless.

And then my poem died.

Could you really blame me for this?

For it was not me but my loving passion

that committed the gruesome crime.