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The poet has insight,
majestic in magic,
fantastic in logic,
to paint all unseen seen,
anything and everything,
he feels their touch,
he listens to their tunes,
he tastes their variety,
he glimpses their beauty,
he smells their types,
though near or far
though close or beyond
though before or behind,
though seen or unseen.
His pen gushes on paper all to feature
in their realistic portraiture:
sparkles of pearls hidden at the bottom,
twinkles of stars in the dark welkin,
rays and beams behind the clouds
looks and hues in the shrouds,
ideas flashing in the mind,
feelings lurking in the heart,
in the songs of a solitary reaper,
in the notes of a teary lover,
in the dirges of life-weary traveler,
glitter on paper in pen-picture.
Infinite inklings in ink,
nectar for readers to drink to the brink,
all painted in the poet’s art in capture,
that is his unrivalled stature. |
