Sitting on a bench, beholding Nature's bountiful beauty stretched before my eyes, I waited for words to come to me. They failed me, for once. There I sat, all evening, hoping for divine intervention. No help came.
Even a parchment can siphon words from inward out,
So can a stray bird in flight at the break of dawn,
The rising sun on a radiant morn,
Or the erstwhile green creepers of companionship long forgone.
Words nuzzled against me,
They befuddled me with their intoxicating power,
But now, they betray me, you see,
The hunt for their elusive caress goes on for timeless hours.
Is it because I am rankled by the shackles of rhyme?
Because I'm less,a mess of a poet-all I do is mime?
Or is it a lean patch not meant to last?
When will the fettered, stagnant ink, issue of my stuttering pen become a thing of the past?
Instinct was my compass to words,
A reliable device...meant to take me to places unheard,
Now, whither is North, whither is South, I know not,
So tarnished my page is with blots.
Words-ahh, they are fickle friends,
At times, they embrace you, taking you places,making you wend,
Sometimes they hang tantalisingly close,
While you try to clutch at them, in your condition morose.
Yet, I travel on,
When will dusk give way to dawn?
When will I come of age-the fawn?
Aah, it's too cumbersome to write; how many tiresome words will my pen spawn?
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YOU ARE READING
Poems on Life
Poetry#13 as on 20/02/17 An anthology of poems. Eruption of the volcano containing the lava of my pent-up emotions. Splashes of it on a piece of paper. "The bottle containing the ink of thoughts is overflowing, I have no choice but to pen down those word...
