Writing a Poem: Live

For a while, I have not written anything which rhymes
so I think I will just write one, now,
about the gut-wrenching deeds of troubled times,
and all which was not heard, smelt, felt, or saw.

Moments later, a shot of neat whiskey giggles down in a gulp,
and thoughts dis-assemble to form words;
nostrils shiver with the smell of boiling chicken – juicy pulp,
and thoughts are observed from at a distance – like in the sky, flying birds.

And then, thoughts of a woman comes, for whom earrings on credit were bought,
and miles were effortfully travelled to reach the place of her presence;
a new, modern form of style – never acknowledged – was taught,
and flowers were carved in sturdy rocks to dissolve in her essence.

Her thoughts leave my fingers trembling, senses hunting for a matchbox.

Then, another thought of a woman with active gesture, lively presence, comes;
she gave a poet recognition, a recluse company, a miser gold;
for her, attention was derived from delusion; answer from complex sums;
and soul to the devil, often denied and pushed aside, was sold.

Her thoughts leave me gasping for breath, like a person suffering from asthma.

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