This poem is done

This poem is done
Its over..
Three minutes ago
even you have stopped thinking about the words you just heard
The Metaphors have started eroding away from your mind
There is no MORE. the comfort that you FIND in finding out that others are also as insane as you
The poet has left the STAGE
What you have left, is the HAZE
A little halo of words that he leaves back in the atmosphere
Like a dull smell of some grass burning
Surti or ganza, it doesn’t even matter as long as the halo in you head becomes the smoke in your eye
The poem is long gone, those who remember it have sands in their hands that CREEPS out as much as you try to GRIP
There is no message to KEEP
No mantra on REPEAT
There is to picture to frame
There is no world play to tell about when your club going friend asks you what’s so exciting about the poetry
Your argument has ended
There is no revelations tonight,
You start to think there is more poetry in the bubbles that stick to the glass and shed an orchestra of heavenly yellow from your chilled Everest beer, or is it this dull rant coming out of this microphone.
And you are again taken back to the poem that complained about you forgetting the poem..
I don’t remember the word exactly but it went some thing like beer and bubbles or some thing.


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