When imagination is pitted against
Bouts of depression
What always wins
is silence -
Benumbing silence - that pierces
The arbitrary meaning of words.
People often ask
Why don't you write regularly?
Like others
For the poet's tiny corner
In the factual world of newspapers.
What they don't apprehend
Is the bloody landscape of the mind
When seen against the charred pampas of the heart
Set in a body
That wakes to grief
Like someone rudely awakened
In a jest
With blood shot eyes
Making sense of the world
That does not at all sleep.
That a poem is not poetry.
One needs to sift the words
Sacrifice them on the altar of feelings
Unless meaning runs through them like blood.
Imagination is not always enough.
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