A poem is marked
by just a beginning
a vain beginning at that
But,
somewhere along the way
it mushrooms into a forest
thickets and undergrowths
And
if it is fortunate enough
It can squeeze tears
From the miserliest of clouds
At the end however
A poem remains just that –
A BEGINNING.
And a poet ?
she starts at the end
and traces her way
right back to the beginning
along the forests
thickets and undergrowths
Ah! And Not to forget the miserly cloud
So tonight I walk backwards
and backwards
Maybe then
I would meet my poem
somewhere along the way
Beautiful and very true!