Jittery

To perform the duty
that is poetry,
I sat back on my wooden chair
to relive the bygone days of playfulness
with words.

Its a calm night.
As the rains fantasize bout the dreamy moon,
So do I, about words that are hard to come by.

A forced poetry is like
asking an ice to get burnt into ashes.
Ashes - will they, ever?

I wonder if I am that beggar in the street
who is more sure of living the next day
than the residents of the high rise afar.

Because both of us have nothing to lose...
... and more importantly, nothing to preserve.

Sensitivity is like an empty piggy bank when you are like me.
You recollect and break yourselves into halves, threes n fours
Still they refuse to come; spent n dried - amn't I?

I still admire the showrooms glittering in neon lights,
the poets who create music with words,
the lives that make us dream.

And while finishing the undone trial of another false verse,
I become too conscious of a missing fullstop (.) in my epitaph.

They say,
the dots were never required.

I know,
I had nothing left to fill in the blanks

.

SoUmY@