The corpse of whatsoever
inanimate poesy ,
the womb of few blemished
poems .
Like a fallen embryo ;
a poeticule who gives
parturition to azoic
effusion from his incitement ;
and a self proclaimed God .
An inebriated surgeon
was dexterously anatomizing
all of them .
His physique was trembling ;
but with consummate finger
movement ,
the smut dust and penumbra
of the antecedent ,
deep in the corpses of poetry .
How many burgeons have deceased ;
how much poisonous clouds
have fallen from the primitive
pure sky into the imperfect poems .
An internal crematorium in the soul ,
a penumbra frozen in ashes ;
laying down the self proclaimed
demiurge .
As the blue calm body
of the poseidon ;
sumptuous Shu prevail up
in the heavens ,
with it's unrevealed profuse
electric reverberation demiurge
proclamation , amazement .
Then the surgeon disengage himself
by pouring a little venom of aeon ,
into his paunch .
He accentuated a bewitching vase ,
the inflorescences were given by
his beloved ;
today there is no ash smell left .







© Dhruva