Her After Death Pleasures.

Gloomy day, nothing much to do at work as the migration is going on. I was sitting there thinking of something to write.  Well nothing came. Vera called me for additional documents. Then there were couple of calls. My colleague asked me to change the style of a document one of my program is printing out and I did it in like ten minutes. By afternoon I was really tired of browsing internet. Then I took my writing pad and thought I will write whatever that comes into mind. After a while I know I am drawing junk flowers. That gave me an idea. I
wrote half of the following poem sitting at work. Then Vera called again and told to scan the documents and send it to her as soon as possible. I came back to room and scanned everything and emailed her. After that I finished the poem.

After a long time I wrote something without knowing what I should write ahead. So excuse me if some things don’t match up in the poem I did read it again but right now I am too much involved in it haha.

I love you all.

Her After Death Pleasures.

The sharpened pencil in fingers rolled,
A face and a figure in black and white outlined,
The hair and forehead, nose and eyes,
Glowing lips and the ornamented ears,
Her bosom with silk coat covered,
By this time her beauty consumed him.

Took another blank sheet and drawn,
That beauty in another pose, another costume,
He made her a queen; he made her an angel,
The wonderful looks never altered,
She, the outstretch of his beautiful imagination,
Carved away every other face from his mind.

To add the beauty, her portrait he colored,
But no beauty added as perfect was the outline,
Day and night he spent drawing more and more,
Every way that beauty found her life through him.

Then from the thin line between sanity and insanity,
He dragged himself away from a beauty non existent,
But with her filled was every cell in his body,
Those eyes, the forehead, lips, arms,
O’ his sleep was filled with her dreams,
His life with her beauty filled.

Throw her out of his mind he decided,
To find every reason through his art,
He drawn her ugly, and as a peasant,
Drawn her with men and with costumes unpleasant,
Drawn her in dirt and as Medusa,
Drawn her naked and as a prostitute,
In every possible way he tried his art,
To kill his passion for her in his heart,
But every painting spoke more than words,
As her eyes always filled with love,
And those glowing lips in thirst for a kiss.

Ran away from his home in fear and agony,
The world at his pathetic condition looked,
But he ran as fast as he can to go as far he can,
But on the way he thought “Who is she?”
He ran out of town and got into a train,
In his tiredness he fell asleep,
After the night he woke up in some place unknown,
Where he got out and walked to the nearby river,
Still he asked “Who is she, who is she?”
A walker nearby asked his welfare,
And to him, what happened he told,
He asked the painter again to draw,
The face of the enchantress he spoke,
On a piece of cloth he drawn her face,
And in horror the man dragged him away,
And took him to a nearby home,
Where to his surprise he saw the portrait of her,
The man told the painter, that the girl was his daughter,
A poet, painter and a wonderful singer she was,
But heart broken she jumped in the river,
And always dragged poets, painters and singers to the river,
To drown them for her naughty after death pleasure.