How helpless are we,
To hope that one,
As helpless as us,
Shall ever if follow me?
Do I hear the bitter bile,
Being gulped by voiceless throats?
Are they caterpillars I am watching,
Disguised as desirous moths?
Is this the foretold vista, at my journey’s sojourn end,
Am I to blame some finger, for pointing a different, different bend?
I had left my doors open,
Was it a mistake I made?
Would I still be standing,
Had I bowed my uncrowned head?
Will it be right of me to say; I never meant a lasting harm,
And it was wrong of them to take, the pulse of my dying arm?
Am I still allowed to think, the thoughts I often do,
Is it a confession if the walls, repeat my whispers too?
How am I to know, if I am treated just,
Even before any trial, if I am sentenced first?
Is it for the reason, that I lit the undying fire,
I am blindfolded amidst the blind, to show me as a liar?
Why the sky is crimson burning, why the sea is deathly quite,
Why all shades of hand are in hand, why isn’t there any fight?
Are they breathing same, the need to break all free,
Or are they already dead, the same as good old me?
I find poetry as a gentle reminder, a medium to relay and dwell upon all things considerate people find inconsiderate. Poetry as an art is akin to a lamp or a magnifying glass. It trails volumes of meaning behind obscure, vague words. I have been writing for a time now, and intend to do so for the time to come. And hopefully, hopefully, hope that one day, someday, a person stumbling across this veil of words, find it alluring enough to shift aside the curtain and peer, into the eyes of the naked truth which sways with the wind of reason. If you have any thoughts, it would be my pleasure to know them, if you don't then it would be a pleasure to not. Be my guest. This feast of words is for you.