Poetry is Born…

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as a sighed bubble
of prismatic syllables,
floating in
firefly strewn sunshine,
bursting within
the grasp of moments
to splatter dewdrops
of transience
on the face of noon~

poetry is born
to momentarily adorn
straits of the commonplace.

when a jaundiced thought,
wizened by reverie
speckled in variegated shades
of sentiments,
withers from
boughs of contemplation,
to scribe in dialect
scented and dulcet,
on the extensive papyrus
of nature~

poetry evolves,
a cinnamon epistle
audible in the whispers
of nutmeg fall,
the silent vigil
of topaz moon of harvest.

Enigma of Poetry

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withering, burnished thoughts
seek to crochet poetry,
in the emptiness of solitude
pregnant

~like tempestuous skies
with raindrop metaphors
or a gloaming enceinte with hues.

in distant horizons
obscure and enigmatic,
with many a quixotic tale breathing within,

the commonplace, the routine,
the rare and the exotic,

nature’s boudoir
and writings of the old,
ranting scribbled in
yellowed, dogeared reverie~

I sought poetry,
–elusive, ethereal, mystical,
oft deluding fingers of the pragmatic
like trickling sand grains,

I tried in vain,
grasping at mirages and straws,
unaware that
poetry discovers itself
penning itself in verse…