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The Poem

It called late at night

Just when I sleep

When the night and morning rays

Have started their bargaining

When nobody wants to give in

Nobody wants to give up

The night lazily brags about its expanse

Like an old feudal lord

It stays put on his leather backed chair

Distributing countless dreams

This is when the truant morning

Barges in out of nowhere

The poem called me then

So I was saying, the poem

Called me precisely then

And as usual I was reluctant

To pull out of my satin sheets

Submit my feet on the hard cold floor

And as a matter of fact, I hate sunrises

They remind me of how the day will

Grow old and rude

The poem called me then

The phone almost rang off the hook

I ignored about ten rings

Then it got on my nerves

I know you understand

How helpless you feel

When your pregnant wife

Wakes you up out of her chocolate craving

At unearthly hours

The poem called me then

I let out my famous grunt

The kind that so resembled

My first cognitive discoveries

I wondered who it would be

Who would care or dare

To call up a dream-petrified soul

Even my dream refused to let go

I don’t blame it

Dreams last less than mosquitoes

Only you cannot see them bleeding

The poem called me then

Clumsily, I walked to the phone

Tripped on something

The rings followed each other

Like despicable sound waves

I reached it

Hoping it wasn’t a mundane gentleman

Groping for the number of the homeopathic clinic

It never mattered to me in daylight

Whether phone calls came in relevantly

But now, I was sleeping!

The poem called me then.

“Hello! Who is this?” I was nervous

Worse than sleepwalking, this

The voice on the other side let out a giggle

A happy one, for once it did not mock

Instantly I knew it was a poem

The same one which I bragged about

The one that cared enough

Not to escape the subconscious

I was almost irritated

Naughty things, these poems are

First they give you the joys of unknown

And then, they end it with a happy giggle

As if the unearthly hour

Was just a bit of drama

Added to its appearance

Funny people.

Till now, I have never seen them behave

The poem called me then.

Angrily, I hung up

These were unknown numbers

Some mystic had given them a curious right

To disturb me in sleep

I had nothing to do now

Except burn in the frenzy of knowing

Except measuring every step to get to my table

Pick up the pen and let out

A happy giggle

Till then, I would have to curse

The poem called me then.

Yours Joblessly,   The Jobless Ideator

Categories: Uncategorized
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