Baby Growing In a Poet

Death has different meanings for us at different stages of life So is poetry. Its images are collage Of thoughtful ideas wedded into a door, Symbols are its bricks and stones Of a home of thoughts, Where nerves make a man grow Like a poem Beginning, middle and an end. ‘I revise quite a lot.’, says a veteran poet. The fragile erotic moments of love, lust and of touch Come and go, dream of a rivulet where tribal women are splashing away in the rain water poetry captures them in sweet cadence. It’s a movement in men, A bubble of desire That leaps water As black cloud does in monsoon. Poetry is close to heart It moves hearts, Extends things further Where colourful mosaics Drag sensations from bricks and metals. Lovers have a full day, In rhymed thoughts.All red! An art form may predate literacy Beside a rivulet Far away from the city’s rust. Life rides on words!