Intricacies

Every poet wants to be painter 
And every painter a poet 
It is the faint mist
Between words and things visible 
Where great minds 
Are led astray,
You can say
From the paper bouquet of your everyday life
From the half chewed pencil of your clerical nights;
That I with my bedroom lights 
Turned off
Am turned on
By the slow shape 
And soft luminescence of the moon
But that would be, probably
A crescent quote;
Lying halfway between truth and lie
And even though it may soothe 
The immediate argument 
Like bolt of the door
Thoughts would come knocking
One midnight at a time
Till madness makes me forget my heartbeat 
And remember only the soft taps
The gentle creaks 
Of those faint footsteps 
Approaching 
Dim lit corridors of my conscience 
Asking to be heard 
To be understood 
But in my fragmented prophecies;
At the altar of my falsehood 
I am an orphan
Asked to adopt my parents
And I am in a mood to err
To give over to the permanent suffocation 
Of savoury sadness 
That comes from cold hugs
In a stuffed room
Filled with trophies and dolls 
Framed history on the walls
And the pitter patter of acid rain
On the window at dinner time 
For the cusp of my boyhood 
Was never crossed by me
It appears I shed
My skin on the bed
And awoke
An old man
With childish desires 
Of milk and marmalade 
At the corner of my lips
And though it is said
That I have grown and growing 
Into a man the world can count upon
I hardly know the numbers 
To make it count
The stillness of my dreams
Is a motion sickness;
And I am diving against the gravity 
Unable to comprehend 
Home from horizon 
While the pivot of my existence 
Is a spinning top
Balanced upon a raindrop 
Being painted by a poet
Who writes for his pain to stop