‘Poetry is inspired;

A result of divine intervention,’

that is what they said

when I asked how.


Inspiration wasn’t easy to find;

The trams, the dirt and the sky;

None did any good.


Words were jumbled;

Phrases strewn across parchments;

And feelings left unfelt.


I took to the smoke;

Relied on the solace of Shiva

And the drink of the Devas.

But none did any good.


Then I saw you.

No it wasn’t the eyes,

The teeth or the skin.

It was the soul.


I said, ‘I am damaged goods;

Carry on brother.’

You said, ‘who is not;

I am here to stay.’


Speech was clear;

Sentences woven to perfection;

And feelings, a balm on the tired soul.


Now I say to them,

‘Poetry is intoxication,

but of a different kind.

It is the leap of the heart

And the bloom of the soul.

It is you.’



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