I am a poet

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

and painting.

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.