RIVULETS OF THOUGHTS - Cascading emotions

A Poet's Tryst - A Tribute to Poets (Part-II)

(Part - II)

I am the Poet, who resides on the horizons...

Poems can be dangerous, when they're alluring and enticing,

Poetry spawns seeds of thoughts, they sprout stalks of feelings.

Poets are lethal, they paint elaborate illusions for the readers,

Tricking minds into experiencing things they haven't experienced.

And I will be a poet.

If your thoughtful minds, so permit me.

A poet doesn't take the beaten path, or the other one.

I have always looked for the third, at a two road fork.

Yet I roam. Places deserted by civilized minds.

The mighty quill is dipped in blood; scarlet tears shall flow.

I shall write insufferable words of agony, that bites and sears.

Blind hands of my creative mind, shall reach the depths of abyss

And I'll drag out nightmarish forms, out into the shadows of light.

Dormant lunacy; lying in the abyss, shall be bathed in twilight.

I'll put into words, those deep emotions, on behalf of the hesitant.

Those that we all have, embedded deep and important.

And yet so difficult to retrieve, to bring to the fore.

The truth I shall sing in such a melodious tune of yore,

You shall not want to live without my song.

I am the shore and the ocean too,

I am the sky and the under-earth.

I am the restraining flourish and the unrestrained chaos.

I am the expanse that resides.

I am awaiting myself on both sides.

"I am the Insane-Poet of the abstract."

I am the floating lantern, in a dark night.

I am the edge, of a treacherous, slippery mountain.

I am the One embracing the wisdom of the Old-Banyan tree.

I am the giggle and chortle of an infant.

I am the glistening smile of a blushing maiden.

All my beautiful distractions, ignites from you.

My Muse.

In this grand story I am the hopeless poet, You're the poetry.

In a world full of temporary things, it's nice to belong.

You belong in my inspirations, you are my revelry.

You are a perpetual feeling that lasted too long.

I ask again, of your thoughtful mind.

Who is a poet?

Who holds the pen with such grace, and curves his lips too

When a curdling cry escapes from the Poet's anguished heart,

The cry comes out as such lovely music, like exquisite art.

The people around, urge the poet to sing of his agony again.

A Poet is so ornate with words, that he is envied, even for his pain.

For the soothing verse, that all your curious eyes seek.

I wring my heart, flog my soul and leave it meek.

I am the habitual Liar, who eloquently utters the truth.

Concealed in cryptic verses of fiction.

Like the Sun through the Stain Glass.

I am the Poet, if your poetic minds so permits.

Yet I roam... As a Poet. I roam. You Roam.

"My sufferings and torments, shall be sung in such melody.

To hide my true pain, in words of poetry is the secret of dignity.

I roam again, as the sauntering Poet with an incurable malady

For I can't go to bed without making a song out of anything,

Of everything I perceive and hence conceive.

-Harish Vaid

(Be the Poet, if your imagination thrives and assists.)