Still Life Poem by Ishan Chaitanya

Still life in its perfection
draws deep sighs from my chest:
a frozen mentality
of time-beaten people.
I'd rather discuss
apples and oranges,
a water jug maybe,
and a few chestnuts
scattered on the table.
Oh yes, and a cluster of grapes, too.
Peaceful and serene,
a favorite of painters,
their only object of hatred
could be the painter himself
if he abuses colors
and imagination in rendering them
canvas-borne. But these
frozen people are icicles
in time: no 4th of July
can move a muscle
of a non-belligerent idea. Still,
with spell unbroken on their frames,
the aura of frozen hearts
vibrates in the traditional
gloom of their centuries.
They simply won't bleed
nor weep their fate dry;
they'd rather quench their impotence
in their unwilling to try.
I'd wish them good,
I wish to bless them,
but the blessings freeze
on their chests like
the ironclad promises,
the causes of their present plight.
Sinking together again
in a backward folly,
each has in his grasp
a cold gadget as comfort
and a frozen hope
for an ice-cream.