@ Long After Poem by Sadiqullah Khan

All the more spoiled
My lines,
Getting longer
Stream of consciousness
No more concise
From monosyllabic
Becoming
Trochaic,
A spondee would either
Taught master Coleridge:
The foot
Is a stride,
My aleatoric experiment
A jumble of words.
Neither a classicist
Nor a neo-
A romantic or absurd
The Voices alas
Scribbles though
Much richer in thought
The Chaos
Without punctuation
Straight from heart,
From a mystic’s
Tutorship.
A maze of songs
Am neither a pupil
Nor a teacher.
The Waste Land
Proved
A collage asking
Critic’s apologies,
Having been written
By T.S. Eliot:
For Ezra Pound.
The bard’s verse
Something to reckon.
Your tresses in gold
An art to sculpt,
Nothing thus happens
After the happenings’
Happening, long after.