Sitting at the bottom
A basin deep and cold
Something stirs from the mirth within me
Glistening new eyes
Drawing away miasma
I sing to the Gods of insanity
The life
The will
Conduit of ascension
A flame
Misfired
Radiates pretension
He touches me
It Burns
A pulsar in my mess
Causing frenzy anew
On fists and knees I pray
Hands clapping inside
With every strike a match
Hot feet can’t stray
Straining jaws
Like a corpse I saw
The smell of hair braised gold
Tongue whipping teeth
I hear him speak
You’ve been saved
Do what you’re told
He touches me
It Burns
It Burns
A contest entry
- the light... by PrabhuDayal Khattar.
400 points, ended April 2, 15 entries
Silver trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
This is my box. Down here.
Comments
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A play to light and sound,
to pounding images,
intensity, all around.
This demands attention!
Kudos
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The intimacy and its scenario brings the original touches of the connection..love the love for HIM..thanks for sharing..
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Excellent
It is a very fine write, indeed. You have expressed yourself quite well. Thanks for sharing this one with us.
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