They meet in a cave,
out in the woods,
no light but that of the moon,
which oozes through cracks in the roof.
Enough to read the scribbles on their parchments,
made through the day,
while they were out,
watching over us.
Terza Rima’s of the past,
sonnets of the present,
and images of the future;
They read them all.
They speak of death,
of life and love,
narrate stories,
from deep in the black;
Of sex and violence,
tears and tragedy,
they let poetry,
drip from their tongues like blood.
The murder sings,
of screams now dead,
when their dead poet society,
meets in my head.
Sucking the marrow,
out of insanity.
By: Viraj Belgaonkar
