The pitter-patter of falling raindrops
Show a rhythm of their own,
Beats intwined with measured pauses
With an intensity that remains to be known.
Like any true artist they too hate
To conform to a rigid form,
At times a leisurely dribble,
And once in a while a thundering storm.
They perform with a passion
Almost akin to fire,
But very seldom will they cascade
With a wild burning ire,
Far more dynamic than punk rock
That you almost grudgingly admire.
Many a times their cadence
With its mellow drizzle resembling slow jazz,
Strike a chord of a distant melancholy blue,
Like a gentle balm soothing a bruise.
And every so often they will ripple
With a tempo that happens to be just right,
Relentless in its percussive thuds on roofs,
Alluring their listeners to waltz in the moonlight.
And again like a true artist,
An audience matter to them not,
For every performance they hold,
Hardly do they expect applause.
For an artist craves freedom, they do too,
With a thirst to reach earth far from near,
An endeavor to liberate themselves
From the eternal celestial sphere.
YOU ARE READING
Handwritten
Poetry"Sometimes I wonder If this is how it's supposed to be Can I make a choice ? Or is it all meant to be?"...
