Untitled (Writing as Curiosity)

Photo taken from the WEB

 
And October will always be the cruelest month,
for it homes the bastard child we conceived,
with a love so impure, it will surely doom our
unborn seed, who was nourished by hurtful deceit,
nurtured in the belly of a Judas.
 
The slit between madness and legibility has diminished;
my solace is restless these days.
It wafts in the drunken air that blows comfort into my poetry,
and drowns in a river of salty sadness.
I have covered the distance between madness and legibility;
and conquered the stripped fields amid,
a space where deprivation is acquainted with normalcy.
 
October will always be the cruellest month…
Now, my words are home where we once stayed together,
Sophie can feel the creases and wrinkles of me—
among my stanzas and around the curves of my honesty.
She listens to my murmurs,
She dwells in the lyrical content of my odes to her perfidy.
I, too, embellish my verses with her deceit.
 
…and October will always be the cruellest month,
for it homes the bastard child we conceived,
with a love so impure, it will surely doom our
unborn seed, who was nurtured in the belly of a Judas.
Now I die once again.
 
Inspired by Baishali Bhaumik Mitra’s Poem “Poems
 
© 2012 by Charles Banks, Jr.
Writing as Curiosity.
Excerpt from End of the Road
Published by Lulu.com in Print and e-book.
 
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