His Final Inspiration... Poem by Rohan Sen

With a thorn from a Rose,
he pierced onto the bark,
his work for the day,
his talent on display

As they gathered at morn,
the village breathed in awe,
one more masterpiece
another rhyme devoid of flaw

He was craftsman extraordinaire,
he wrote and they perused,
left notes to bless his mind
with words no less enthused

Hand in hand, he walked with his muse,
his lady in waiting, a damsel recluse,
she brought out love-desire,
she sparked his imaginative fire,
causing happiness unsighted

Yet one day wagging tongues
caused a query, a stirring in brief,
the great poet spoke of mirth,
could he pen as effortlessly of grief?

It reached his ear, the news brought
anger into his head as he slashed
onto paper, a gloom he thought
would silence his critics unabashed

Yet few notes appeared,
only from the weak minded,
praising his mediocrity to glory,
the poet was not to be blinded

He fought and bellowed,
he feared if he mellowed,
he would not sustain,
the inspiration for pain
but his efforts brought hollow reviews

And then came a thought,
an idea painfully fraught,
what if he created amiss,
in his life with his lady, bliss!
Could it break his shackles,
the exile from her kiss?

Alas! Artists take art to temples
they take it by hand to bed,
they are infused with creative lunacy,
which erase their boundaries dead

While the village unstirred asleep,
on the bark of the tree, unseen,
lay a grief in words never encountered
a creative misery unforeseen

He had been to the abyss of his soul,
it narrated tales of his vanity unread,
desperate to ressurrect his place of worship,
his lady, dripping life from her neck, lay dead

What is success, if not the murder of one goal for another?