Art of Living

For once I read my poetry
and caressed with my palm,
Felt what I have fathered
and suffered and altered and
still kept, dearly.

You may show indifference but deep down
between the pages, you have counted
stars and tears: same time, for one.

Your promises that were fulfilled
and wishes that were abandoned,
it still has the scent of the first red rose
that has died waiting to be savored, somewhere else.

The earthly smell and the aroma of rains
happily trespassed and blotted a few emotions
when you slept oneday keeping your window open.

I shall stand up and say this to all you poets.
If one night you feel like gasping,
Touch your memories that are etched and inked
as events, there inside your poetry.

I have heard emotions can soak.

For you will see glowworms
coming out of them,
and flying all around your room.
You freed them and saved a life (of your own).

Rejoice.

SoUmy@