Lies of night
If the tip of a sun doesn’t wash your ink away,
Then your eye has sinned throw that lamp away,
This darkness like a sigh is the sight of an eye,
With the rise of a sun comes the news of a night,
That which will give a raging fever to your art,
For years has to burn like a flame in your heart,
Every wood brings change when placed in a pyre,
Happy or sad it’s bewildered by a fire,
Filled with memories are your empty eyes,
Full of life but your spirit has died,
A night always comes with a dagger in one hand,
For those happy boarders of a joyful land,
The fire of love burns in those parts of hell,
Where windows of heaven open to drizzle her smell,
And If god lives in heart or so says the Christian man,
Then when a heart is broken does he feel the pain?
I wrote this poem in fear that should a day come where I have to write a synopsis for this book what will I say? Well, this short poem truly encapsulates my story, words, sentences, and paragraphs don’t do justice to art, so “Let the rise of sun be the proof of sun”. Poetry has burnt within me for years. This book is about that fire, I believe every single person in the world has an interesting story to tell, but not all can tell an interesting story. Then there are those stories that are both interesting and intense, those stories are really worth telling. While a neurotic can choke on his own intensity, an artist makes a story out of the flesh of his madness. There is not a lot of difference between the two, except the latter is somehow penetrable.
