You’d love to drink from this
Gourd of freshly tapped wine
Crowned with balls of froths,
But I see that your face grows short
Of smile when it hits you that
You must crack the wisdom of
Divinity hidden among the lines
That race in circles round the
protruded belly of the gourd,
So, you stalk off claiming that
Wine is a murderer of sanity anyway.
You’d kill to wear those strings
Of beads that will carry fiercely the
Gayness of rainbow colours to your waist
And make your strides sound like
The best thing after light showers
Of rain, Yet
The furnace of anger bellowing in
Your pupils glowers at me
When it dawned on your eager heart
That the beauty of the beads is a puzzle–you must
Severe its cord at its point of oneness and each
Bead must taste the rock-hard unfriendliness of the
Ground in forceful disunity, you would, then, reconcile
Them with their string and make them
Chant in rainbows, sun, and clear skies.
You twist your lips in a hiss, calling beauty
A pain you do not wish to bear.
You do not hate poetry,
But the painstaking hard work of breaking
its riddles to extract clarity,
Wipe your mouth clean of the lie that it’s forceful,
And confess, with your knees bowed that you
You only fear the chilly force of its hailstones of truths.
What do you think?