As Yet Untitled

21 Jan

(I’m getting a hang of these italicised paragraphs where you can really get into my head. In this next poem, I have consciously tried to use some abstract techniques and create a few questions. To all those who wonder, the character I speak of is indeed the creator. This poem is as yet untitled because I can’t yet find an appropriate title for it. I do hope you enjoy reading it as much as I have writing it. P.S. I wrote after watching a miserable ballon maker sell his wares on Marine Drive. Thank you.)

Come to me, the voice whispered.

Soft solace searching, darkness scared.
An artist amidst this all.
His definition stretched.
His art, not extending to the realm of art,
His art, the art that ticks the clock.
The world pays no tribute to his brush.
For it his brush that paints each sunrise
In all this, this artist, like any other.
Oblivious to the world he’s created.
Drowned in his muse. No space for thought.
Shades of green hit his eye.
It is a new colour. Left enamoured.
No search yet done but this one, the one.
Come whisper in my ear.
Tell me what you want.
I make animal balloons, don’t be afraid.
The madness of the maker challenged.
The rubber grating of two balloons.
And he thought he’d had a giraffe there.
But all he had was a knot tying the two.
The maker convinced it was what he intended to make.
And so, the boy, the whisperer,
Who had long given hope up.
Sighed, another balloon wasted.
The promised giraffe would never come.
Any art ever made unintentional the rest, natures play.

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