• themaskedpoet 5w

    The Revolt of Ghosts

    The graveyard comes to life,

    Ripples and murmurs

    Shake up the dead mounds of clay:

    A revolution is at hand. 

    A terrible beauty is born --

    Dropped like a snowflake of fire

    Into the face of the earth, 

    Burning with the anger of a thousand martyrs

    That lived and died to preserve the Art, 

    The words of madmen cramming his head, 

    His words hit the armoured heads of blind devotees

    And unable to pierce them, 

    Fall and drop short

    On the coffee table

    Where women sit

    And hear each other groan

    Verses from award-winning self-help books

    Before they highlight in temporary markers, 

    Catching crimes with matching rhymes, 

    As they rave against the injustice of Fate's punctured tyre. 

    Stainless suits and corporate attire, 

    They click and post photos of their hundred rupee coffee cup

    Beside the latest poetry book in fashion. 

    A drop of burning spirit

    That grazes and razes the way

    Down the throat, the revenant is

    Unable to gift life to the hollow husks

    Who have never questioned their routined breakfast

    Of milk and honey. 

    These days, the fire stolen 

    By the modern Prometheus 

    Is only used 

    To light up pyres

    For dreams that lie motionless.