Life is a prosaic poem
Decoded by spoken words
Living is a poem
Understood by a tip of sand…
Hmmmm. ..My son,
If my life will be a poem,
Write me poetry
To be read in each poem
Of the multitudes…
Will I live on what I left undone
For death will surely knock my head
I will knock your certain head
We will all knock death’s head
At the centre of timeless banter!
Except you are of something
Nothing will ever heal you
You may sway athwart by time –
Spend on searching for living
Or will all pros on prosaic poems
Nothing will ever heal you my son
You may be an excerpt of praises
Or the creator of creatures
By one in a million phrases…
Except you excel out of your weakness!
Though you walk on the rage of ocean
Or be the tides of religion
Nothing will ever heal you my son,
Though you puke what was…
Except you except something for all thing!
Nothing, I say these words!
Nothing, my beloved son of my quill
Nothing, see agama nodding his crested head…
Except you are of change you want to see
On this mold… O’ my son!…
(To be continue…)
c. Natur’s Pictur N’quill.