How two faced a poet has to be.
The poker face of rejection that you
Freeze at will, every time you receive
A negative from a poetry journal,
And that the occasional smile that touches the ears,
Which is a bigger and fatter dawn,
Erecting a bigger monument,
That fills an eternal place.
Timelessness on the tips of your senses,
Pressing a button that opens
Up floodgates to all that you held
Inside, in suspense, while pumping curiosity,
And waited, gazing at the East,
Waiting for the sun to rise,
To strengthen your bones, that carry you,
While searching for some poetic justice.
And you realize that your body
Is filled with chains, expectation
Being the biggest, where you’re
Set in your ways, to reach a higher floor
In this tall skyscraper.
And you are trapped in an elevator,
The down button pressed.
And all you can do is to wait and wait,
To be given a ride upwards.
A poem is always at the mercy of ghosts,
Those phantom editors, we only
Get a flavor of, and yet determine our fates,
And all we have our senses, to feel a poem,
The edges that give it periphery, and the ending
That transforms it into an experience,
And hope to god, that the subjective eye,
Chooses your work, over others.
And we cling on to a long red-colored thread
Given by Ariadne to Theseus, call it hope,
Seeking to find our way from the labyrinths,
Of our own obscurities. The reality is,
No one claps for anonymity, as you wait for your turn,
To fly a kite on a blank white page,
While dreaming of the day,
You get to perfect the super moon.