I would come to know
in time when I'd be redundant
the sunshine would have faded
and I'd be life-abandoned-

youth was once proud and loud
busking in hours resplendent
then came the winter of discontent
with all its dreams being forgotten

The poet dies the moment
in each poem that's written
he has drained the essence
of self-- the most poignant he has spoken

fresh breath he will redraw
upon the next visitation of inspiration
a new world he will vocalise
the dying unto words is his chosen mission.

There's no arriving
even if thought so
by the traveller
the journey is just beginning

the mind deceives
a sticking-point seeking
and speaks: 'all is resolved'-
but it's illusive thinking!

life is a process stretching
to future unknown dimensions
there is no fixed destination
every step is but a crossing

beyond the bounds of the now
mankind is born to sad desiring
the exploring into time but manifests
the heart is still in wanting.

I dipped my toes into her ocean and was completely swept away

Happy are so many memories...
But better still is the instance from which they are born.