Monday, February 13, 2012

and hence I stopped worrying and fell for un-worded poems-

what are words
to a poem
just an ill fit garb,
my poems flow
with the sounds of unknown,
they tap the boundaries
of a folklore

and sometimes
it is not even the magic of a page
the staccato of the ink
or even the canvas of a rhythm
that gives life to my verse.

just a cup of coffee
and your name
in the middle of a page
by me.

my wordless poems
are filled into
the beauty of a sunlit winter morning,
and the notes of a
passionate torrential downpour,

my poems are nothing
but the rendition
of your slow soothing voice
that talks to me when am writing.

my poems are everything
but words.
they are
bone and flesh
snow and ice
and a little of you.

and love, it is
in the twilight realm
of your eyes
and in the chateaus of morning
on your face
where lies
the sand laden beauty of the pyramids,
old dense foliage of machu-pichu,
the snow-filled peace of the alps,
white calm night moon of Taj Mahal
the comfort of a poem
that shall be written
and all that goes
by the name of me

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