TEARY SUPPLICATIONS

The competition was

Competitive,

Bleeding inks and quills

Naked papers,

Stained.

Snoring mettles

Like greyed phoenixes,

Like active volcanoes

Rose violently,

Roofing Camelta’s cubicle

With her fine, stormy

Dust

Of slippery inspirations.

Voices on branches

Of papers

Hung,

The tongues of pens

That the challenge

Accepted,

Exhausted prosaic and poetic

Batteries

That to the beaten war drums,

Kowtowed.

Twinkling inspirations

Upon murmuring muses

Staged awesome prison

Breaks,

Leaving many, to pick

Words

Soaked with style,

Humour and enjoyment.

Aha,

These are the remnants

Of the award

That with honking

Traffic,

The lanes of the house

Choked.

Here, creativities

Fluttered

And on paper’s lips,

Grew obese.

Her veins with festivities

Flowed,

And revelation’s drums

On Camelta’s laps,

Her alluring notes

Like Sunset’s beauty,

Echoed.

Yesterday was a song

Lost in duels,

Quills and inks,

Roses, Daffodils and Sun flowers

Upon bodied papers,

Sat.

How do I tell

Fellow Cameltans,

That this award without

Them

Would a smoke in the

Wind, be,

And her streets,

Oceans of wasted

Efforts

Of competitors and

Organizers,

In fallen glories, groan?

How does one

To the river’s edge

Get

And return home

With an empty

Bucket?

How does one,

The sincere seeds of supporters

And participants,

Without failure’s dread

Harvest?

Answer: With teary supplications.