My pen cries
Its vapid tears beat against melting windows
while they drum against the pane
The same rhythm formed
As the vowels of these words corrupt
The suceptibility of
White paper
Purged of ink
And swimming in the carelessness of
Unconsciousness
Does life mean to care?
Or does it run us careworn?
Do inanimate objects surrender
To the inspid existence to which they are sworn?
Are my poems really inanimate from this dull, over-used pen?
Who's phrases and thoughts are being reiterated
Over again, and again?
Is it questioning, or altering
Our perception of reality
Are we puppets being manipulated
By the jaws of philosophy?
If I am truly Spriha,
A divine aspiration
Then what separates me from
My fellow beings of creation?
Is it the rumbling of the Earth?
The mounting tsunamis of Poseidon's waves
Incomparable to Shiva's dance
and Angni's flickering flame?
Or is it Vayu's viscious wind
Villifying every storm
What extricates my external world
From every internal war?
Spilled Ink 