Words Drink, Verses Breathe

Words soured by long weeping
In visions searing the skin
Made verses spit fire
To burn all their fluid reflections.

Poem was birthed
On dry protruding tongue of sun,
As the abeyance of night and serpents
Left few drops for the rage broken sip.

The poem was free like a toddler's smile,
With no ends and definitions;
Now see how it picked up complexes
In its morning stroll.

Words drink and verses breathe,
The poem is a magic reflection.
A reflection that sucks its identity
And throws it in a dung heap of reflections?

Poem is a stealth observer-
Who deceives all the reflections.
Whom nobody can see.

Poem is the predator
That preys on the color of page.

Copyright?2004, 2005 Debashish Haar