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.