This isn’t an epic, a gothic tale of a hero’s fall
Nor is it a ballad to sway and enthrall
There lies no element in it of a secluded sonnet
Neither is it a Nature’s muse
For I’m no Longfellow, Wordsworth or Keats,
But just a novice, an amateur with little feats.
Who’s just prepared to plummet this ocean deep
With a feeble knowledge and a vision meek.
When I hold my pen, my thoughts work in total tandem
And fingers move in amazing directions..
A story’s abridged, a verse is written
Is it a mania, or simply an obsession?
Every often, I am, m startled with this confusion!
Is this what brings out the latent poet in me,
Or is it the audition that rule my imagination!!!!!!!
So this isn’t a heroic tale of love, war and reunion
Nor is it about chivalrous, doughty patriotism
There lies no element in it of a romantic saga
Neither is it an instant attempt for poetic recognition..
For I’m no Homer, Henry, Taylor, or Tagore
But just a inane, scruffy, benighted passionate
And as I sit here with these feathers in hand
The clock chimes
Throwing seconds into
The baffling ocean of time
Pondering over words that rhyme
Thoughts come and go
I delve, deep, deep and deeper
Into the dark abyss of mind
And just able to write a broken, fragmented song
Devoid of any poetic glamour, sans any melodious lilt
Still its unscrupulous, unflagging and original,
Compiled by an innocent, humble beginner,
And not by a seasoned wordsmith…
Now till the very end, till the very last
Till my hand moves, till my heart fast
Till then mine mind shall work, till then shall I try
And at last…..
At last the sun shall sink beneath the rummet sky
Tapping the poet concealed in me
As fleet footed time flies by!
