I

A poet is a failed attempt,
At fathoming the depth of his own creations.

II

A poet is a river, striving to flow,
As fast as it once used to,
But now it's heavy load of debris of emotions,
Has made it a stagnant, dust-laiden water.

III

A poet is a dead, out-dated calendar,
Stuck in the winter month of December,
Left to rot in the forgotten piles of years.

IV

A poet is a dimmed star on earth,
Too often brushed off,
As a speck of dust.

V

A poet is the gravest piano key,
Not touched often,
By the gentle fingers of the player.

VI

A poet is a lost shoe,
Once so vital, now it tosses,
Untill it is buried in the earth,
With neither a funeral nor a flower.

VII

A poet is a stutter on the tongue,
Of an anxious little soul,
Often wrapped by silence, shame or a bashful tear.

VIII

A poet is a loose stitch on a beautiful gown,
Either overlooked or criticised,
As a pitiful flaw.

IX

A poet is a wrinkle on the skin,
Of a lady and it is unloved,
And condemned by her,
As she wishes — it disappeared.

X

A poet is a picture in the album,
Of a family so lovely,
But now they have broken apart and become,
A mirage in a forlorn desert—dusty.


XI

A poet is his pen,
A poet is his pages,
A poet is his unfinished verses,
And imperfect poems— he threw in the trash.

XII

A poet is a living, living creature!
Though he calls himself dead—
A poet feels more than any bosom can manage.

XIII

A poet breathes more than any lung could ever do,
A poet loves more than any heart could,
A poet is a living, living creature.

XIV

And though I write these verses to define a poet—
A poet is a living metaphor,
That no poet could ever write.




~the universe in her
© z.f.