Poetry is a vain pursuit
Purely selfish
Purely for one's own pleasure
For the pleasure remains the poets
For read or unread by other eyes,
The lines remain her own
The secrets buried in it impossible
To excavate
Thursday, April 5, 2018
Poetry
What could i tell him anyway
He asked me,
Is all that land yours
Is that house yours
I stared at him
Dumbstruck
As if seeing him for the
First time ever
What could I tell him?
That I belonged to the land
That I belonged to the house
Rather than them belonging to me
That the scent of the burning plumeria
Doused in coconut oil
Kept me anchored,heart and soul
Every muscle and every drop of blood
What could he understand
Anyway
And then
And then the world falls silent
Its just me and you
Talking
Communing
Yapping away in silence
Wordless meaningful quietness
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