The Rain of poetry
Poetry bleeds ink into the white wood of paper,it catches fire still doesn't burn my finger,
Poetry drops like the first atom bomb in paper, and explodes all those compressed feelings,
And the bed of poetry is well sheeted,
And still I could hear the mourning over death.
Poetry rains like mud from the volcano,
Like the honey from the comb,
Poetry is a line which is my horizon,
Its the sunset that reflects upon the city.
Poetry is the rain,
which relieves you from the pain,
The melancholic and workaholic heat,
The sea, ships and all its fleet,
Faces the mutinous sea,
And a poet's heart bounces in glee,
Like the sunflower caught the sun blushing.
Poetry is the God of love and pain,
Of sin, magic, madness buttery butterfly.
Poetry is the line of ants I can watch for days,
And when nights were just for watching the Moon, poetry comes in like a visitor,
And asks sleep to leave heavily it rains,
The metaphors and similes across the glass window, across the fingers, across the paper.
© sourishree ghosh