amia

DEAD POET Dragging the bag I walked A bunch of unpublished works Did I miss anything? Were my words meaningless? I carefully moulded my poems Like a mother mould’s her child Placed each letter delicately, Stepping back and savouring its beauty At every instance of completion. The words made a garland, Each connected by a thin hidden line, The line which connected them to me. There I will trick the readers. The hidden line is my thread Every words were special pearls in it. Pearls created from the – Dirt and stains of experience. But the garland was found ugly, Hidden lines never recognised My words meaningless without them, Lay dead and soulless – In front of me! I picked them up, Everyone one of them, Did I miss one? I should search then, For the poem is my child, The result of my – Strained heart—if not, It might stain the Path of the new poets ...