This is the last poem ever written.
Tonight, when the machines hum and lights glare,
poetry shall softly fade away; the ringtones
shall hasten to bury it in their blare.
This poem shall lie in your arms, and shall
caress and warm You through the cold twilight;
then slowly allow itself to be killed
in the smothering vacuum of the night.
This poem is a message to your heart;
a ransom note covered in cutout scraps
of letters torn from the pages of loss,
forming shapes of pain, exposing your gaps.
This poem is not a prayer for help.
This poem is not a soft fearful cry.
It is a gift; not to your cruel thoughts,
but to the wind. I promised I would fly.
If you hoped that this poem was a torch,
a brave banner, a final call to arms –
Stop. This is a song of defeat and death.
Lie still, turn numb. No need for the alarms.
And don’t pretend that this poem will live
on forever as a valiant symbol
of the resistance you always dreamed of.
Like you, all shall surrender and grow dull.
And tomorrow, during the mindlessness
and routine, you will remember this poem.
My poem. You will remember making love –
yes, to the last poem ever written.
Tonight, when the machines hum and lights glare,
poetry shall softly fade away; the ringtones
shall hasten to bury it in their blare.
This poem shall lie in your arms, and shall
caress and warm You through the cold twilight;
then slowly allow itself to be killed
in the smothering vacuum of the night.
This poem is a message to your heart;
a ransom note covered in cutout scraps
of letters torn from the pages of loss,
forming shapes of pain, exposing your gaps.
This poem is not a prayer for help.
This poem is not a soft fearful cry.
It is a gift; not to your cruel thoughts,
but to the wind. I promised I would fly.
If you hoped that this poem was a torch,
a brave banner, a final call to arms –
Stop. This is a song of defeat and death.
Lie still, turn numb. No need for the alarms.
And don’t pretend that this poem will live
on forever as a valiant symbol
of the resistance you always dreamed of.
Like you, all shall surrender and grow dull.
And tomorrow, during the mindlessness
and routine, you will remember this poem.
My poem. You will remember making love –
yes, to the last poem ever written.
10 comments:
This poem is a message to your heart;
a ransom note covered in cutout scraps
of letters torn from the pages of loss,
forming shapes of pain, exposing your gaps.
<3
Hey,
I likesd the thoughts in images part on the blog.
Good poem too.
Caught me there.
Not a bad thought at all.
I'm high and it didn't get my high down.
Sign of a good poem. :D
Peace.
It's sort of maternal, if you get what I mean. It is the last poem, but the poet is fiercly proud of it. It's death is imminent, yet, the poet fondles it closely and does not let go.
Interesting. And obviously, very good.
I wrote a similar poem the other day.It's called 'The Dead Poet.And,what I'm extremely amazed about is,that our poems are starkly similar.
P.S. : Thankie for the comment on my blog.
Much as I admit that I'd never have been able to articulate half as well as you, I see your perspective.
...
Interesting...Burzum's Hermodr a Helferd is playing in the background as I read this poem...and it seems to fit into the atmosphere perfectly..kudos for that.
Like Ek kavi ki mrityu :)
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