On the Carousel of Words

In that cafe I penned my poems
pinned a living butterfly of my heart
on paper.
Each strophe was a spectrum of the words bursting to colours
on my wings,
rhyme tessellating radiances to patterns
word by word.

Each feeling was a hummingbird
sitting on the rim of my cups,
beaks longer than pens
seeping in my soul,
sipping on my nectar of inspiration,
turning light on, one by one brightening
the reasons of my life
word by world sentence by sentence.

Braiding them
in breaking their chains.

Bees of words in mouthful hives of their saps
burning and sweet
ointment to the laceration, of tastelessness and alienation,
alienation of man to others, to himself
to his heart,

furrowing their intrusion
into my bones,

excavating poetry out of my bones
untying the ribbon bow of my chest
harmonizing bitter and dark
with honey and heart,
turning chaos to congruency, darkness to honesty,
turning coffee to ink
turning hurts, turning words
to the treasure pearls of poetry.

In that cafe
art was exuded
in every sip
like a waltz of pain and euphoric objects,
like vines and your intoxicated veins,
like rainbows of colours in chandelier of poetical words.
striped, naked, all exposed
all proud of its skins, its limbs,
its appetite for living after giving birth.

Solidifying your tears,
the residues of your sentiment
upside down in that hanging chandelier.

Right there
in that unknown cafe
the real art was pirouetting
on the toe of every inspired object,
on the carousel of waltz,
between poetry
and epiphany
turning the twinges of rolling ploughs
to the spores of sunshine.

In that cafe....