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Dilantha Gunawardana


Hard-earned Rest


Progress
Defined not by words on paper
But by empty bottles of rum
As the mind wanders
Down every chute, in every galaxy
In her search for the holy grail
Of words forgotten, even unspoken
Hibernating in the vast stillness of space
To be plucked like coconuts
From the constellations of inspiration
For a sorcerer of the lexicon
To conjure a concoction
Of symbolism and metaphor
That will bleed the imagination
To her last drop

Yet the reality bittersweet
In the absence
Of rum metamorphosing to genius
When the mind draws empty buckets
From the lexicon well
Inspiration, a faded flower
With no color to call her own
Nor the fragrance to woo pilgrim beauty
Relegated to a shriveled anatomy
Hunched in front of a typewriter
Staring at a milky white scroll

Oh the tragedy of writers block
For she is the devil in disguise
That treads to the third eye
Casting a shadow
That looms like a pitch black night
In the absence of moonlight
Shading your lenses from infusions of light
And draining your passion
Like a needle perforating your jugular

As the last drop of rum flows
Down the chute of the esophagus
You surrender to the night
As vertigo pirouettes your soul
Even seated on Cuban wood
As a senile drowsiness infiltrates your poise
As the eyelashes wink inebriated of weariness
Your rum-soaked body
Surrenders to a silent lullaby
The buzz of the mosquitoes
On a Havana horizon

For the eyes to repose
To reinvigorate the third eye
With raindrops of moist inspiration
To unveil tomorrow's dawn
Armed with the impunity of silence
And the resilience of rum

The advent of tomorrow
When the mind will swim far beyond the horizon

For that's when battles are won........

Submitted: Saturday, July 20, 2013
Edited: Saturday, July 20, 2013

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Poet's Notes about The Poem

A poem inspired by Hemmingway's saying “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”

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