An Ode to Forgotten Dreamers

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by Abilash Kalupahanage

Instagram: @poetryfortheinsane

 

Clicking through the night,

The keys trace ink across a blank screen.

It means nothing.

Nothing other than itself.

It holds no connection

To cold Pain

That traces its way across life,

Nor to the moving fingers

Of Grandfather Time,

Kronos.

 

We revel in the glory

Of things that have no splendour,

No magnificence, no grandeur

Of their own.

What of the mind that carves

A place for the poet

In an indifferent world,

Creating poetry

Where none ever was?

 

What of the moving hand

That breathes life

Into cold, rough-hewn marble?

What of the lonely wanderer

That weaves love and mystery

Into the ruins

Of forgotten cities,

Inhabited by dust and moths?

 

The keys attest to their glory.

Tapping feverishly,

Exorcising poetry from sick minds.

They alone remember

The poet forgotten

Long after his heart’s yearnings

Enter the tongues of the masses.

They alone

Long for the master’s touch

Once more.

 

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