R S Prasanna

Spam that tries to be literature.

Sunday, May 28, 2006

Home, by the Poet

It was not dark
It was not bright
I sat alone in wonder

All that I saw was new
Not a sight warm to my eye
Not a speck igniting my mind
All around me strangers
I felt alone

And when I felt that
I felt scared

I made not a change to all this
Not a word i spoke
A thought I thought
would ever touch that around me
I did not matter
And that scared me

This is not home
Yes, my home had the mountains,
The river, the trees, the chirps
But back at home
They were somehow warm
More real

Here they seem an illusion
Lifeless, devoid of thought

Not a sight warm to my eye
Not a speck igniting my mind

And when i felt that
I felt I wanted to write

The poet I am, i began
I looked around me, and i smiled

The mountain
The river, the trees, the chirps
Are alien to me, I wrote
I, a stranger
Out of place, out of home

And when i wrote this
I suddenly felt
warm

I stopped to look around
At the strangers

Only now, every sight warm to my eye
every speck burning my mind

And i laughed
Like a child

For I was home.

I, a poet
The poem, my home!

1 Comments:

Anonymous manoj said...

You know ,that i've alredy read this,

Yes ,and i know i've alredy said this, but...

WOW....;)

10:07 AM  

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