Zenith Event Poem by Bhanu Padmo

(Part-I)

Dark rainy day had hid summer sun,
And storm rose ere dusk, the greyest;
And the rest would do the broken story,
On the brink of a blackened end.

It was only the brink,
end though the next.

Crept in then night,
Fierce and blind,
To intercept a rising kindred moon;
On the brink of a blackened end.

But it was only the brink,
End the next though;
Beyond dread of a tempest,
Roaring and soaring;
And a broken story was to do the rest;
Splitting my mind, beclouding my heart,
On the brink of a blackened end.

Groping in the dark, I shut the door
To intercept the gale-wind,
Roaring and soaring;
In a bid to intercept the bottomless melancholy;
As it tore my roof,
And tore my nerves;
And the broken story was to do the rest;
Amidst long interjections of drowning din;
The storm was passing by,
Roaring and soaring.

(Part-II)

Helpless, I sought fortuity,
Erringly I thought;
Unaware of the tale of congealed ichor;
That a bleeding soul could cure itself to double,
Under the spell of cold intuitive discretion.

They say it*s poetry, I say - self;
Where, like chameleon, reason lurks;
Often as fortuity,
kindred and cogent;
Impregnated by nascent will;
Impregnated by renewed dream;
To redeem the drowned and decayed;
To be called fortuna, the dream-goddess.

And Lo! The mirror upon the dark wall shone,
Bearing the image of claustrophobic darkness;
With secrets leading to a candle,
Distant and dim,
Secure and steady,
Like predetermined fate.

It wouldn*t be easy to guess the source, so eerie;
The wax-turned ichor of dream-laden soul;
Long-bleeding erst,
Teeming now with nascent will.

Oblivious of tempest without,
Oblivious of the drowning din,
Within me subsided the neural storm.
An echoing whisper I did hear.

As the magic mirror upon the dark wall shone,
"You have won me" - said the fortune flame,
"So go back from the brink" was its order irrefutable.

(Part-III)

Universe had witnessed by then a sea-change;
And drifted overhead eye of the storm;
Alerted by a sudden calm, as midnight bell struck,
I rushed out to witness moonrise at zenith.

Though it was possibly still the brink,
But end was never the next.

For no longer it was a broken story;
It was to meander beyond, much beyond.