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The Last Poem Words
upon
paper Written
with running hand And
a mighty pen whose ink Flows
as tears from the heart Whose
colours are printed With
a dye from the mind And
whose words Are
but an extension Of
that which life could But
didn’t leave behind They
are to be read But
not with the eye For
it is not a reflection Which
disintegrates Like
passing thoughts They
are but an extension Of
the umbrella called Feelings
which touch Like
does the air around Alighting
upon you Without
bearing weight But
breathing in you The
air of life But
comes a time When
words their meaning lose And
they become not a garland But
a slithering noose For
they are misconstrued And
their emotions abused When
love is raped At
the altar of verse For
poetry does not A
poet make As
flesh does not A
man make Without
a soul You
are but a part Devoid
of the whole We
all can read We
all can write We
all can with pen Proclaim
our might But
not with words In
the guise of a verse Where
one reads With
feelings averse I’d
rather not words On
a foolscap page But
crumpled paper Which
outlives age For
when the heart does write It
writes and words within Then
course like blood And
not bleed The
poem dry For
it is the tear That
upon the grain A
mighty pearl becomes And
a poet never succumbs If
with his words he becomes The poem itself. ~Vikram C~
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