Why should all poetry
Be a search for meaning
Of life, of love, of pain
And paint each, blushing,
Until you can’t peel away
Those emotions, that
Emotionless and inanimate
Entities bring about.
Look at me,
I write awfully lot about
The sun, the moon, the stars
Those which have never uttered a single word,
Let alone shine on us
Individually,
And magically
I manage to belong.
We breathe in life
Into every word we pen down
And so did they-
In this poem of sorts.
When we look up
Into an unending darkness,
We still see
The same moon,
Don’t we?