Poetry

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

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