Blood is splattered on a parchment,
Syllables resonate in percussion,
While the words precipitate the form—
A poem...

The poem is a book—
Each read, a new leaf,
Each verse, a new vein on those leaves—
That changes form and structure.

The poem is a desert
That gardens Cacti and snakes;
And bakes and burns
Each fold of foliage—
In the mirage of its verse...

The poem is an ocean
That holds streams of serenity,
Streams of thoughts
Find solace in its lap.

The poem is the sky
That skirts the land
And kisses the aquamarine,
And promises to fulfill their wishes—
Poems are the landforms that make those kisses...

The poem is a drum of liberty
That melts the shackles—
Both inside and outside...
It is the bondage and hunger
That impersonates the eyes.

The poem is a sonata
Played in solitude
In the epitaph of lost love—
Poem is the memoir...

The poem is a bond
That connects love and passion.

Poem is the fire that incinerates the bond...


The poem is a screen
That hides its characters
And allows the toolkit of their features
To carve its form—
Poem is the narrator with no form.

Copyright©2004, Debashish Haar, All Rights Reserved