The Carcass of My Imagination

I’ll tell you the story of how my imagination was shot

By none but me and why I crafted that disturbing plot.

I had to free my imagination when in the clutches of clichés it was caught

What else could I do when unruly words too went on their own trot?

For long I tried but colourless words were all I ever wrote

Words that were always far less too eloquent than what I’d have thought

Over the blank page once again I saw them menacingly gloat

Before parting with my imagination and leaving it to rot.

So I slew it and then the carcass of my imagination, I watched it float

On the white expanse like a capsized boat

Near to it lay undead yet lifeless like a big blot

Of blood, words, nay- remnants of a lost battle I once fought.

Trickled from the carcass of my imagination like blood that wouldn’t clot

Few absurd words and to bury the carcass, my pen I mournfully sought

And a eulogy I searched in the depths of my ink pot

Rest in peace, I wrote. The saddest cliché of the lot.