Monsoon

The lyrical darkness makes its way
into the depths of a poet’s soul
Apocalyptic in nature -
How comforting,
knowing that this twisted world will end!

My pen will graze through the yellowed pages
Ancient ink will make its mark
Breaking the static silence
That has long hampered movement of any kind -
Movement of the physique,
movement of the mind.

Overhead the clouds are overcast
Thick swirls of vapour
The sea is restless
Taking a life of its own more than ever before.

I sit on a dead log
but I am not dead.
My poems died a long time ago
and I, nearly lifeless.
But now my pen is resurrected
and the brink of life now stretches generously
Far into the unknown -
Am I achieving immortality?

The world will die
because its end is near.
But mine is far from near!
And finally, this wicked world -
The world that successfully blew out
the value of my poems and left them in the arms of Hades
- and in the process, nearly washed me away -
will know how it feels to be dead!
Will know how it feels to be dying
before it can finally be dead!

The cries of the poet
swept away by the monsoon wind -
Revealing only
the sad body of a man slumped on a log -

The wind turns the yellowed pages.
A black line runs through them -

No poems, no words, no nothing.

-Sonia-

*not an original Edenia poem