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Shakespeare in a smoking room
Dusty, bleak and kind of sore was that room,
Weeping, as if it stood on top of some bard’s tomb.
Walls of glass, drenched till neck in smoke,
and those smoking men draping their agony in an invisible cloak.
The room, where men barely fall short of grace,
A poet walked straight through, holding a mirror to his face.
A poet in a black coat, a poet who had died;
A poet who was breathing cigarette, as if he was too tired to hide.
In a room, where men pretend and lie to themselves as they sink,
He was writing poems, as if his pen would never run out of ink.
So much of truth he brushed out at every stroke,
Just a glance at him, and You could tell why people do smoke.
I stared at him from afar, as he lit another cigarette from the flames,
Just then he stood up, like he finally broke off his chains.
And just while leaving, he garnished his poems with blood splashes;
With the tip of his cigarette, He burnt that paper down to ashes.
© Sagnik
Weeping, as if it stood on top of some bard’s tomb.
Walls of glass, drenched till neck in smoke,
and those smoking men draping their agony in an invisible cloak.
The room, where men barely fall short of grace,
A poet walked straight through, holding a mirror to his face.
A poet in a black coat, a poet who had died;
A poet who was breathing cigarette, as if he was too tired to hide.
In a room, where men pretend and lie to themselves as they sink,
He was writing poems, as if his pen would never run out of ink.
So much of truth he brushed out at every stroke,
Just a glance at him, and You could tell why people do smoke.
I stared at him from afar, as he lit another cigarette from the flames,
Just then he stood up, like he finally broke off his chains.
And just while leaving, he garnished his poems with blood splashes;
With the tip of his cigarette, He burnt that paper down to ashes.
© Sagnik
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