The Pyramid of Poetry

The poet in me, wants to write of pain,
And the child inside is euphoric 
At the nigh nakedness 
At the bare it all bluntness 
For once, it won’t be alone
Like a lotus left
In the middle of the forest 
For once, it would be a dandelion
Seeding away the agony
In search of answers

Pain, I write,
Willing for it to appear
To bloom out
Like wave, like lava
Inescapable, obliterating
And free me
And my own Christ on the cross;
Those wounds on my memory,
So that I may get paralysed
From the things heretofore unrealised,
But all I found
Were the dust motes
Blowing from my breath

Pain, I thought 
As I smiled in the dark
At the death of my spark
In the hollow of my heart
Was it empty from the start?
It takes all my willpower
To ignore the whispers from the wall
And breathe in the ground
So while floating I do not fall

Nobody knows a poet, you see
For he is a never was
And thus never will be;
A saint, a servant, a shadow of the soul,
All but the devil’s advocate 
And someone who stole
Each morsel of truth 
From those immortal minds
Who lived their lives
Beyond the hives

Ashes in my ink
I am the fire from the far
A hope never igniting 
But guiding like a star
An untouched absolution 
A dye that does not dissolve 
A rhythm sans rhyme
An equation that does not solve
But remains like a constant 
A fulcrum on the edge
All the weight of the world
Against the end of my page