.
A cloud falls from the sky,
a lead balloon of precipitation,
and cuddles the ground
like a long lost lover.
Dripping its cargo,
shedding tears along the way,
leaving a trail of damp memory
and a calm balm
for the Earth.

And a candle flickers
on a lonely table,
as a pen drifts across lines,
filling meaningless words
that never
convey the depths of separation.
The flame flares
as a waft, a draft,
creeps in a crack under the door,
adding a poignant touch
to the melancholy of atmosphere.
Gripping the pen with delicate unease,
the hubbub drowns inwards,
doubt rises in ascendancy,
the pen falls,
like a discarded relationship,
and the meaningless words
stop.



© Pagan Paul (21/11/18)

So, A friend called me a Poet
I said no, I don't think I fit in yet
I'm just like a photographer
I take pictures with my mind
Like a stenographer
I type what my mind says

Like a dam
I let my emotions, thoughts build up
And trickle on the paper
Like a cloud
Mass of condensed words falling on blank pages like precipitation

I use my ink as an outlet for my contemplations
Words as prints of my imaginations
I write to get rid of some thoughts like excretion
Writing, a medium of communication, inspiration, relaxation, meditation and therapy.