A poet's love
Let me immortalise the love that I see,
Though not in you, its just my eyes and heart, there all I see,
Its like a blunder, a dangerous risk, beautiful, maybe to see,
Actions, thoughts clutter for a smile to see.
Care that is only known by the person who maketh,
Sacrifices waiting to be treasured for approvals,
Expectations rise at the obsession's flight,
Fight for a sight yet there is a veil on her eyes.
The desperation to claim what's your is not desperate to be claimed,
Its the depth that cannot be fathomed, love that cannot be conquered,
For it remains senile, unknown, foolish to the heart that never burnt.
Relentlessly, the incense stick burnt, carelessly enlightening, without any joy, hurt!
One has no answer to the trials of love,
Its the destination that makes history,
Sadly, not the journey that the souls make,
They just remain hidden, kneaded to the lover's skin, smell and soul.
As poets, we must inflict the love and be burnt like the camphors,
For that's when our poems glow, flow with the incandescent spirit,
Traverse borders with its intangibility,
Yet touch, caress like a mother to a child.
Its just our love, its got nothing to do with you,
We make merry in the idea of love,
We think what you cant imagine.
There is no limit and hence the goodbye kiss........
Though not in you, its just my eyes and heart, there all I see,
Its like a blunder, a dangerous risk, beautiful, maybe to see,
Actions, thoughts clutter for a smile to see.
Care that is only known by the person who maketh,
Sacrifices waiting to be treasured for approvals,
Expectations rise at the obsession's flight,
Fight for a sight yet there is a veil on her eyes.
The desperation to claim what's your is not desperate to be claimed,
Its the depth that cannot be fathomed, love that cannot be conquered,
For it remains senile, unknown, foolish to the heart that never burnt.
Relentlessly, the incense stick burnt, carelessly enlightening, without any joy, hurt!
One has no answer to the trials of love,
Its the destination that makes history,
Sadly, not the journey that the souls make,
They just remain hidden, kneaded to the lover's skin, smell and soul.
As poets, we must inflict the love and be burnt like the camphors,
For that's when our poems glow, flow with the incandescent spirit,
Traverse borders with its intangibility,
Yet touch, caress like a mother to a child.
Its just our love, its got nothing to do with you,
We make merry in the idea of love,
We think what you cant imagine.
There is no limit and hence the goodbye kiss........
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