Under carbon monoxide’s pall, the body yields—
terrestrial flesh undone in poison’s creed.
Yet the engine’s hunger, mechanical, cold,
devours its fuel, completes its greed.
But the mind’s fire—who tends its spark?
What hand directs? What dark womb feeds
this pyre of thought, this restless arc
between the ash and the hungering seeds?
If breath and soul in pact are bound,
how does the gas’s kiss, unseen, unfelt,
steal through the veins without a sound,
while spirit sleeps in fumes that melt
the waking world to grandeur’s lie?
Who craves the fall, the fractured light,
the plunge through haze where senses die—
drowned not in dark, but borrowed night?
Is this the rift—the stark divide—
man’s weight of will, or chains imposed?
The choice to burn, or be denied
by hands unseen, the sky disposed?
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Author:
Mottakeenur Rehman (
Offline) - Published: May 20th, 2025 00:22
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 18
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Poetic Licence, Muse of Calliope, Mottakeenur Rehman
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Comments2
Mottakeenur This is a real gem well crafted in meter and rhyme as well as subject and message. It reads Shakespearian in form and feels so classic in nature. A most beautiful piece that deserves wide exposure to any that enjoy this periods poetry. A fave without doubt
Thank you for such a generous and thoughtful comment! I’m truly honored that the poem resonated with you—your kind words mean so much. Grateful to share this with someone who appreciates the craft as deeply as you do.
You have a wonderful style to your writing, it flows so well and has much meaning, pleasure to read
Thank you—your kind words mean so much! I’m truly glad the poem resonated with you. Grateful for your support.
You are very welcome
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