T. M. Isaac Poems

Perhaps, after all, it's nothing but a ruptured artifice;
A misconstrued prism formed of fractured isms.
It could as well, of-course, be nothing more than art at ease,
A pseudo-lust conceived with nihilism.
...

As the birds sing, outside there are certain things
I think I rather not think about for now.
As the birdsong strings loose harmony to discord,
fretting the golden, beamlike strings with green,
...

These words, I know, are saturated with pyrite luminescence,
Bathing in that golden taint of faded essence;
Have I had only the resolve to let you know how I truly feel,
Free from the constraints of myopic metaphors,
...

The snickering man, on the corner of the street,
seems to know me from a different place;
perhaps, he knows who I was in a different lifetime.
His eyes running up and down my tired clothes,
...

It truly is a perfect scene: You, I,
These brightly coloured residues,
unspoken words and feigned easiness
smeared around us, a glorious composition.
...

Who would have guessed such dreaded emptiness
might linger in things too beautiful to name?
Her glass-worked eyes shine disharmonious,
blooming fields of white, oozing intensity.
...

I have not the faintest clue as to how my ideas have fainted so miserably.
Perhaps, they weren't as well formulated as I thought they were
or as splendorous and witty as I believed them to be.
...

She seems willingly weary.
Lost, it seems, inside insistent thoughts;
time spiraling, twirling up and down the room as she hums
monotonous, muffled, tunes to herself.
...

You said it left you happy-sad,
the words resounding vaguely;
Yet, not for green vistas glad
with the touch of the sun, red
...

No more will the sullen sound of sunken flowers devour my sleep;
no more will vapid images surpass desire only to succumb to loss;
no more will, to will shrill abstractions into animated matter,
it doesn't matter.
...