Schizophrenic ice - cream cone
By Abhishek Pandey
Stirred up by the ambient heat
Oh it melts but still it is cold !
Cold like those abject mornings
It trickles down the curve,
The curve of the cone.
'Tis dying, but he's trying hard
To hold it together...
Dying like his innocence,
Amidst those wails and screams
Of a woman in misery,
Of a woman in agony...
Violets dripping on the hand
On the trembling hand,
And cozened shades of indigo
Is it a tear, is it the cream ?
He's not sure...
He doesn't want to be sure...
Provoking flavors of mental origins,
An aroma so stimulating,
Arousing olfaction
And retrieving memories
Of the demented days of a child...
A child who saw horrors,
A child who witnessed gore...
Like the wave of a magic wand
It cast a spell on him
A voice from the limbo
Yet something within...
He swears it was the cone !
The cone in his hand,
Yet it was within him...
It beguiled him to surge
Almost in a trance,
It's desire became his urge,
And a cozened shade of crimson fell
Was it the blood, was it the cream ?
He wasn't sure...
he didn't want to be sure...
It swirls and it twists,
And arrives to the base
'Twas beautiful in his days.
In those days... and still is.
With the vertex in his hand,
He wonders, if the voices are right
One and all said he is a loony
But the cone says he is not...
But the cone says I am not...
About the Poet - Abhishek Pandey
AP alias 'The Pandemonium' is a rather irregular person with his own way with words, he tweaks and bends giving them soul. Poetry and Philosophy being two of his greatest passions, solitude remains his greatest companion.
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