Monday, 28 January 2019



I know my soul is a complex of ballads & odes,
A barn where harvested poems are stacked,
But let me stare into your eyes, my fair one,
For there are sonnets scribbled therein,
Written in verses of infernous passion
& if only you'd affix your hands in mine,
We'd become an anthology of poems,
To be read by our estranged lovers-
The ones who promised to be rainbows
To scare away our flood of gloom,
But left when clouds gathered in our eyes.
The curvy figure(s) of speech may become amoebic,
For I have seen metaphors melt like candle
& oxymoron, made morons of poets;
But if we superimpose & become one poem,
then we need not fear when arguments tear us apart & break us into lines,
For even after enjambments have tried in vain to keep us together,
My fair one, we will surely be reunited by verses.