I am poetry;
Sonata composed in fourteen lines;
Woven in a dilating sonnet.
I am poetry,
Anaphora riding on iamb's saddle
Echoing free verses n
From line to line
And singing metaphor's
ever-living  hymns;
Of then and now,
Dawn and rise.
I walked  in rhymes
Till my feet strikes the gleaming Volta
And sends me back
To gloomy Arden.
I am poetry.

Sleep, o little one
For nature morn will call
in your little garden,
chirping melodies,
Little Heidi sails
On streams of laughter,
Echoing verses
Of blissful feet
Sweet discord trumpets
"Heidi !
mother's countenance
strikes chord of labour lullaby.
forming rosy rivers round the sun.
Heidi swings a cockadoodle
Till the apple of the sky sets his blazing hand
And rest in nature's cradle.

Well hung life's life's painting
Droplets of hope
Scattered  pages.
Leaves of fresh words
fall from poetry's summer
Love's unsung theme
Inked on chaptered scrolls,
We'll keep Shakespeare's signature;
painting mists of blissful autumn
in the sea of  our early dreams
  Shaded chrysanthemum smiles
and salty mistletoes.
We'll add the last piece;
Splashing
pretty hues of yesteryears
and ringing tones of
cradle's  laughter.
Life's colourful stress
caught in the fluffy strokes
Of breath's brushes.
In our adios
Well hung life's painting.

Im dying....
And
So Is my poetry

She was the pit
I couldn't fill.

Pilled up
Leafy  wads
Of notes
Baked with
Salty tears
And
Smoky hooks,
made soft bricks
That ached the heart

So I
stocked up
Walls of
faulty pillars,
Wolves  that gnawed
the hole.

Now I'll throw
In words,
Letters of beauty.
Bridges of rhymes
to salvage her,
The pit
I
Couldn't fill.