I am a poet and this is my life,
Strangely deluded, if you may want to call it so
but a lot wild than you ever dreamt of.
There are no stars dissolved in the glass of wine
nor the little fairies inscribing the words,
it’s only a man or may be a woman
holding my tiny hands
As the paint flows over the skin of the air,
I hear some whispering on the ground-
Millions of minuscule droplets
write their song of freedom,
rising to various phases of their tiny lives.
My eyes twinkle over the smudge,
I try hard to write a meaning
but the slipperiness prevents me,
for it wants me to only stare at the gleam
And wonder how beautiful the poetry is.