It justifies my contemplation,
The grey colours of my thought,
Throwing psychedelic colors
On a soul that wants to listen,
And stop talking.
I bargain its silence,
With the spineless teardrops,
Slaves to the runaway muses
Of every beggar poet.
The unloved soul stirs not an emotion,
Lest the prism of thought
Should throw rainbows on
Shifting sands,
And thus I fashion peace,
Within halls of thunder.
I love the monsoon,
The cool kisses of the winds,
That brought eager battle-tanks,
A city dissolved and decimated,
My capricious eye the matchmaker,
That finds every defeated outpost
Within the mind's make,
Equally desolate and diffident,
Laid to waste by storms seasons past --
Storms beyond my control.
Image Source: Sam Chirnside
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