THE LAST ROMANTIC

57

i

I’d like to write a Love Letter
To the act of writing herself
If I’m alive now, then I was dead
When I didn’t write, it’s Skyward again

ii

With unbothered Golden Sun
The blueness of the stars is my
Final muse, the magic of the music
It’s not easy to state the changes
Internal, apprehending language
Is a habit of association that didn’t convince me

iii

My spirit craved something more
Than duality and dull metaphors
So I soul-shifted into the gear of silence
For a Silver Breath, and it’s a gift
To be writing again, Love Letters as always
To a world, I didn’t always know

iv

What to make of it, tragedy unfolded
In months of boiling water and multiplication
Tables, how the worlds counts her profit
I knew I didn’t want to exist in a vulgar way

v

My most prominent objects were inside
Subjective, I was like the last romantic
Of a generation, giving free-feeling a fair hearing
Without conforming to some drab pragmatism
Just yet, pretending I was a spiritual guest
In a colourful experimental world, language
Could suffice, at least as a tentative medium.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/silver-sleep-and-pomegranate-flower-453025759

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