This marks the beginning of my efforts to build an online database of sorts of my (pre-existent, mind you--these are not on-the-spot flashes of literary genius) writings. A poem, that-- after ages of trying and failing in different pieces-- I managed to write in near-perfect metre:
Sometimes, when I close my eyes,
The lamp isn't a lamp at all,
Instead, I see a bright sun rise
Right up on my bedroom wall.
The atmosphere is no more glum,
As birdsong floats down from the trees,
Is that the air-conditioner's hum,
Or the whisper of a breeze?
The cramped apartment disappears,
As fragrant flowers surround me,
The smoggy sky instantly clears;
There's blue as far as I can see.
The drip-drop of a leaky tap
Becomes a tinkling, flowing stream,
That distant roof's a mountain cap,
Where translucent icicles gleam.
The streetlights- dull and dreary things-
Turn into rows of stately pines;
The very air dances and sings
Around them, as they stand in lines.
The speeding jet that stains the sky
As it leaves behind smoky trails
Is an eagle, gliding up so high
As if to race the clouds and gales.
But when I do open my eyes,
The peace is lost; the dream is flown,
And I mourn for the paradise
That exists in my mind alone.
I am glad to be writing now from a place where the paradise isn't entirely lost (sorry to disagree, Mr.Milton)...where the wind does whisper through the leaves, where the sun does paint the foliage with flecks of gold, where a quiet night breeze surprises me with it's secret scent of flowers; where I don't have to close my eyes quite so hard.
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