One drop is what it takes
to fall, into the inert pool
of memories and stir therin,
ripples of thought to cascade into waves,

For quiet’s redemption…

When the chalice trembles full
with the crimson fire of blood,
when dying eyes gather lust at sight
of the nectar of the immortals,

One drop is what it takes
of hemlock from morgul vales,
to sour the potion beyond form -
from elixir to hell’s froth,

For life’s breath…

When eleven eyes are held still by will
and the twelfth shines keen,
fixing in its terrible beam the cloud
beyond which lies the brightest star.

One drop is what it takes
in the mind’s poise from its high seat,
to cut focus to bone’s white
and to cast that sight into red abyss,

For wisdom’s price…

When the face streams pure and fair
and the eyes grow dark and fond,
when the full lips with them curve
the beholding heart in helpless plight.

One drop is what it takes
of covetal to welt the soft visage,
and taunt the moons of a moments past
to hollow sockets of ringing mockery,

For beauty’s delight…

And when the dusk clouds gather around,
when the doom bells sway without peal,
when the last spark leaves the eyes,
which even to death become blind,

One drop is what it takes
of faith to stand the crushing void,
and rouse the soul, from the claw of nought -
to battle, to life, and to death,

For hope’s rejoice.

To declare ones creativity, there are a number of ways. Some of the more original would be dying of consuming a new poison or disposing off your neighbor’s irritating dog by biting it to death. But on closer examination of the above mentioned alternatives, I found in me a cheap and vulgar tendency for self preservation against the execution of the admirable schemes. So in a particularly uninspired moment , I chose the alternative of literature.

“Why literature?”, one may ask. Perhaps, because of a long standing grudge against authors from my schooldays, for there is no better way of debasing a profession than taking it up and showing the world how bad it can be. But romance apart, I think it is because writing is the easiest thing in the world (and reading such writings , the toughest). Indeed, if you look closely at the present horde of writers and poets you will notice a horde of lazy, unimaginative and stupid saddists whose only reason for wielding the pen is an illusion of originality.

Coming up will be a collection of forgettable pages of my rambling thoughts, sometimes on local sensations and topics that routinely excite our imaginative mobs, in a more or less incoherent fashion. But, if by a cruel twist of fate, I become famous for my works, I shall claim genuine inspiration from the long dead titans of the discipline.