A poet frolics in betwixt
The shadows and the sparkles–
In between jocundity and gloom,
Heftily dependent on mood.
A couple of taps may lead her
Towards the threads of darkness;
A bit of swaying may signify
Another cascade of rapture.
Sometimes, she yearns
For the inebriation of light;
Yet, most instances shalt find her
In the embrace of night.
It’s a treacherous game, she plays–
Where she sings profound lullabies
About two seductive lovers;
Whereas, she promises herself to Jollity,
She weds herself to Torment.
In truth, the poetess exists
In a kind of murky mélange of both–
A type of bricolage of grayish hues
Endowed with both euphoric shades
And grievous tones.
Because, effective wordplay
Doesn’t really consist
Of a blatant, one-dimensional voice.
Each oeuvre may only be potent
When it enacts the actual interplay
Of the multifarious thoughts and emotions
That truly affect daily life.
Although, there’s that persistent peril
Of being in a forever spiral
That suffuses her core with naught else
But the sickening tendrils of sorrow;
An everlasting obsession
That impels her to delve
Into the myriad layers of black–
In order to seek the source of white.
Hence, she cloisters herself
In voluntary solitude–
Because, this neverending search
For the hows, whats, wheres, and whys
Of irrefutable, ultimate verity,
Shalt always herald a lonely voyage
Where the central archenemy
Shalt be no one else but herself–
And only herself.