Poetry is kind of lying,

Yes, maybe I'm kind of lying— to make you assured;

When I said, I'm full of souls with no room—

Gorged in heat, fire, radiates vigour success!

But alas! I refuse to be as plain as water of no use.

Sweetly the noise falls the silent stream—

Now you sir, must wonder what's the tale?

A native birth of conspicuous fall,

As an unexpected surprise prose may paint,

Waiting for eternal— already in mind,

What if I tell you, you're a beat of this song distended?

Fifty lakes may speak, twenty might lie

Few hundred miles to be found—

Simply abound to say, you stuck in survey

Listen, listen one and all,

You, travellers are transection fall.

One simile that caught—

You're in a bewildered maze: feeling exhaust,

How can I paint the face in virtual lay?

Another friendly shade in flesh and bone,

Stuck in the buttonhole, the needle

wanting aid in vision disappeared.

By yellow patient fingers, longing in dust—

First bell is gold, writhing in sun-dried

Furrowing brows, you see shatter of stars

Measuring words by words, what are you thinking there?

Hope will find refuge in window-length.

Perplexed, troubled, I'm here to light a small fire—

The familiar pictures are clear now,

Pressure of eastern wind, coming forward—

You can see tiny pages of lies, after all

Poets never say what they hide in glorified sighs.

— 28th October, 2023