Its not a poem,

If it is only a collection,

Of thoughts,

Like join the dots,

With rhymed recollections.


Thing is you see,

Woe is me,

A rhyming dictionary,

Does not make poetry.



Is multi sensory,

A rich verbal tapestry,

Sewn with polyphonic petals,

Of sensitivity.


Poetry could be,

The intricate interconnection,

Of imagined images which condense,

To expand exponentially,


That’s just alliteration.


Poetry is an attempt,

To descibe a baby’s smile,

To give words to the pain of loss,

And the euphoria of epiphany.


It is the soaring spirit,

Tamed by the delicate gossamer,

Of tyrannical metre,

Or a sledgehammer which can,

Tear down tyrant’s walls.


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