3/26/11

Renaissance

11:36 PM




The parchment soiled with the blot,
stunned...
stinged as if by a ray of hope
the hand flung back,
resisting the flow of ink 
throght the pen into his veins again...

He stared in disbelief,
the single dew of royal blue,
spread like blood strewn on battle ground...
dilating pupil of his eyes,
followed every pattern 
that the single stain on the parchment made...

The net of nerves, 
intellectual grays...
suddenly conscious of consiousness grew...
awakened in his dream again
he saw the painting he used to create...
Unfinished the edges here or there,
grafted finesse in places he knew...

Flourish in strokes,
calligraphic art...
the poet in him like a master
beckoned his words..
Breathing again his senses alive..
in that cell confined,
he wrote again...

Irony laughs at an innocent's grave...
He wrote his confessions,
the convict proclaimed...
in the verses he reigned...

ASHK

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