The lamp flickered rather ominously,
threatening to burn out any instant..
two hours and forty minutes,
that is how long he had sat there...
Just waiting for some inspiration to dawn,
some sensible flow of rhythm in his words
to draft them into what he would vaingloriously call Poesy...
Winter rains, he was told were a writer's paradise,
Did he need to be told?
He had reminded himself so umpteen times...
Mist for mystique,
The patter of rains for music,
The algid breeze for thrill,
The shiver at its touch for concupiscent arousal,
The morning sunlight through the fog for the gentle love...
Yet all in vain,
there was no cadence,
words were as jumbled an expression within him,
as were the random spread of vibrant rainbows on the morning dew,
each holding multitudinous reflexion,
withal lacking speech...
'A slave you would become to verses',
he was often told,
'what crime?' , he would argue...
only to be shot at with glaring eyes,
'Its engulfing you,can't you see?
God,I had only heard of cocaine addiction!!!'
he had not slept for the last two nights,
this being his third;
if only he managed another 34 minutes of insomnia...
Night and sleeplessness had worked for him,
more times than he remembered,
then why not now?
It was obfuscating....
'Its turning into a duel,more than love'
he remembered them say,
'Your words are battling your verses,
in this perpetual struggle,
creating symphony that someday would overpower you'
'But they are just a flow,like music,
the intoxication can't surpass the craving for spirit...'
his meek counterargument...
The lamp finally went out,
unnoticed in his trance,
he still sat with open eyes,
inking on parchments like gibberish scribbles,
he did keep awake for another night....