Writer’s plight

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The very instant I hold a pen

My blood can feel the strain

Generated by the impending poem

And the mood accordingly changes from tranquil to solemn

In the same way an ailing man longs for the healing power of a herb

I too desire the vigour possessed by a verb

Its heartiness, pumping life into my weary soul

Reassures me to spread my wing and let go

Igniting images of an unshackled bird

Set free by the sincerity of each word

Flying high in the hush skies

As the warmth of the sun moistens its eyes

Causing them to glisten

While it faintly listens

To the words spoken by the child in me who burns

With an impatient desire and yearns

To be the custodian of the frail sanctuary where my poetry lies

He is however bound by my perennial lies

Hence, whenever I write

I’m placing upon myself this child’s plight


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