Curtains drawn,
on windows closed,
painted on walls,
along prison doors;
Nailed shut,
from the outside though,
buried beneath,
the undergrowth;
Seven feet long,
and three feet wide,
two feet tall,
a prison to hide;
Six feet under,
a mound of dirt,
silent and warm,
as the day of his birth;
The poet sails,
beyond the waves,
across the tides,
no longer enslaved;
Free from the world,
free from his mind,
free from the chains,
free from his binds;
Chains that once,
tied him to the quill,
to that bottle of ink,
on the window sill;
Free at last,
to live his tales,
of love and lust,
the sailor sails;
A man no more,
the poet dead,
a poem now,
he waits to be read.
By: Viraj Belgaonkar
Second stanza – wow! Seven feet long, three feet wide…. All that description is so so good!
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