This Too Shall Pass
From the tall tumbler glass of modernity,
Mellowed metaphors spill over
The rough cobbled streets.
Devil’s ivy hangs from balconies,
Hiding the cracks in whitewashed walls
Of mushy imageries.
In the thimble space inside,
With languid murmuring in the dim light,
You wheeze your insta poetry.
The meter dies with your gasping,
The rhythm hobbles along the alleys
Between the tenement houses of poesy.
The years are slow to pass, heavy-footed.
They limp languidly, chewing the wind,
Their teeth rattling.
In the gray luster of the slow sun,
The cadence lies dead on the windowsill,
The snappy prose crackles somewhere in the dark.
You walk out into the garden,
Try to fix sadness by being miserably happy.
You dice about the soil
With little trowels of fluffy free verse,
Sow the seeds of similes,
And wear your yellow sunhat backwards.
Downy and sugary, bright and happy,
Your poems dance along the idyllic landscapes
Of Thomas Kinkade’s paintings.
Closing my eyes, succumbing myself to darkness,
Like a transcendental mantra, I recall the old
Persian adage with a heady, intellectual air, and repeat—
“This too shall pass.”
Poetry by Bibek
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Written on 2018-12-14 at 13:32
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