If It Wasn't For Poetry

The feeling of impulsive sensitivity, the beginning, the search for the meaning of emotion, the end. When I am at their thresholds at the edge of twilight, my mind sinks in turmoil, unexpressed. When the day’s last wind begins to blow, I see in the corridor of past my shadow lengthen, saunter on the footprints buried under dust, while the road to the future waits to be walked. Life’s story written in tome of assorted episodes, at the end of a sad chapter I have to decide, if I would turn the page or close the book. I choose to read on until I am in the last page. Seized by the urge of expression the imaginative mind enthuses my muse to encapsulate the fixation, that transforms the creative passion into words, flowing with ebullient surge with the joy of poetry. At the crossroads of self-searching journey, I refuse to silently crumble in loneliness, but tread the moonlit path with dreams. If it wasn’t for poetry I wouldn’t have risen from dust.