the piano plays in the dark
it is inside my mind
every note of it
i see the old man still on his trembling fingers
the sound of his music clings in the ears
of my heart
she died a long time ago
it is his inability to accept things as they are
that makes his fingers sing
it is this sadness in his heart
that makes his solitude as beautiful as ever
verily like the face of the woman he loves
it is this darkness that keeps all lights open
dusk, twilights, trailing blazes of needles of peeping light
penetrating the shutters of his window
at the end when he dies
i look at the face of the room again
stained with so much sorrow
artistically
priced without much value
the onlookers laugh
i don't
precisely i know the story and i want to write
this one
all over again
not on paper but inside my mind
my soul is the pen
my heart bleeds on paper
These are poetic experiments. Man's quest for the poetic element never ceases. He is always caught in the eye of awe. He does not make the rules now. The rules change depending on the emotion that time and space feed him. He must see everything with his wide eyes gaping. The beginning of poetry too, like philosophy is wonder. Look and see. Do not stop wondering You are the poet. And everything is poetry. Wonder. Wander.
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