An Enigma Poem by Shreyansh Swarnakar

Writes he languid, celerity is in his thoughts,
Scribbles words cross to make a point straight.
Scum born of cleansing filth in soapwater is his mind's hat,
Beneath is a daydream soap-bubble of colours eight.

Dwelt he on the hills that did bid his mind high,
In hermetic caves found he wombs of nourishment.
Present, he is lifeless planted in level soil scant,
With wary eyes welcoming another prudent banishment.

Speaks he wry, speaks he tripe, speaks he irksome,
Taciturn vociferous is what they call him best.
Questions he eternity in a teardrop and stellar logic preaches,
Locked with metal Herculean, he is a treasure chest.

Frowns he at the ripples that mar his reflection,
Wears he clothes blue and grey, glum and gay.
Wistful doldrums amidst seasonal whoops of ecstasy
Cloud his halo of exuberance and his life's way.

Enlivening, serene, apocalyptic, merciless,
Like the many faces of water is he.
Pushes up ships that hit the ground in despair,
Wreaks havoc temperamental on those that displeasing be.

In alarm of peril a red ruby had shone and escaped note.
Reshuffling shuffled visions is Epiphany's deed.
In his eyes is a sudden curtain of the other world,
His fingertips with rubicund creation bleed.

His quill flowers blue and showy,
The flowers are well-honed for the Queen of Bees,
For those who throng her are all but worthy
Of the nectar they have imbibed from the myriad poets' leas.

In silent contemplation, he realises what he is.
In company, he smiles none and utters none,
Though in a pack fly acrid puffs of celebration;
The witness is dead, the crime done.

In colourless pictures and squalor finds he a home,
In dust and cobwebs he wishes for a sweet sojourn,
Yet he builds a tomorrow rich and splendid-
Forever a tomb for his unmated spectre forlorn.

Meddles he with the hours of judgement at the Devil's call,
The thirteenth of the dozen, an enigma is he.
Born with laurels that are blown away and seldom claimed,
An enigma is he, the enigma is me.