Off Spring..

FIRST LIGHT

A baby is born
What is so unnatural?
Millions do.
But look, the baby
holds onto his mother
And those twenty six flowers
Brought for him
from nowhere.

A POET GROWS

He never had trouble
With words
Unlike making friends
Unlike in the field.
Unlike losing virginity
And he found his strength
In expressing himself.
So he chuckled.

THE POET LOVES

HE didnt know
Whom he had to love
But he loved her.
That brown eyed girl.
And he realized his poems fast
and with sense and feel.
he realised this is love.
So his silent gestures &
lovable metaphors
agreed on sweet consequences.
And they walked in rain
and made love
Thereafter.
,
;
.
Then there was that
Blue eyed girl.
Along came poems.
He got confused.
But felt enriched.
It was his 'poetic liberty'.
He reassured.

THE POET MATURES

The poet matured.
So he thought
And he became popular.
He went certain
As he could bring in fresh leaves
From autumn trees.
As he couldn't 'teach' poetry
And as he got applauded
Every time he recited.
He enslaved words
Instead of entrusting them
And they danced to his tune.


THE POET FUMBLES

One day
The words eloped
They just betrayed the
Schizophrenic mind
And stood aloof.
He is worthless--shouted some.
I am wordless--the poet retaliated.
But no one could read the poetry
In his face.
The poet crumbled.

THE POET DIES

And the poet died
A pretty normal death.
Unceremoniously
Unknowingly.
No one knew because
No one cared.
A poet without words
was indeed very average.
But a young bard came up
And wrote on his epitaph,
"Dear sir,
You remain.
In us
Through them (words)
Forever"

And the spring prevailed.
...
..
.
Call it a poetry
for it is a poet's story.



SoUmY@

[This seemingly meaningless and endless
scribbling is inspired from 'Life is Elsewhere' by Milan
Kundera..Thanks for taking the pain and going through it.]

Powered by ScribeFire.