Locked up in an Iron cage
fed on an Iron Plate
yet unseen, uncovered thoughts
hiding beneath the Iron Mask
unleashed on the plains of peace
leaving the scars
of unpleasant times
reeking .. unpleasant memories
flooding the remains
with unheeded rage
opening valves of scourging lava
flammable words
errupting from the forked cave
stealing away the calm,
the nothingness..
bringing in a change...
7 comments:
the last two lines suddenly change the entire flavor of the poem, and leave the reader in vacuum. Thats good technique. :)
But narration is very open, was it intended?
Did I never tell you? I went through your blog ages ago.
You have blossomed into quite a poetess.
Hey nice work.. and nice twist in the end!!
And my poem was not poet recording his slow death but rather poor me sitting with high fever!!! LOL
Nice one! Incredible use of language and imagination.. one of the rare combinations i havve seen in quite sometime
hmmm...nice...
well, you may be my junior...maybe my sister's batchmate...
i was a summer'2000 passout of aejc...
btw, thr was an ankita in my batch too...
:)
the name of the person you were askin about is vivek...:P
it would be better if we discussed the issue through e-mail...
i don't know. mine have always been silent ones. the kind that you can't be sustained in words that can shatter. rage is fragile is that manner. mine have been more of a kind of plastic. consuming one in their stench when burnt, bland in their existance and parasitic. quite unrelenting quietness. unyielding changes are thus. I don't know. mine have been this way. urs is the beautiful kind.
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