If It Wasn't For Poetry
If it were not for writing,
I would remain as I am,
voiceless wanderer, lost in chatter;
no different than meditation,
mere spectator of unfolding drama,
chopping wood, carrying water.
My common thoughts would linger, trapped,
in silent vacuity;
same as enlightenment's unmarked footprints,
unnoticed, on a deserted shore, washed away,
by an indifferent tide,
chopping waste upon water.
In the quiet curls between verses,
lying hushed as a wake, authenticity unravels,
reminiscent of gurus, tangled up threads of resonance,
only the art of words provides;
in this vain exertion, I find liberation and its sister,
inspiration, too,
splintering kindling, shouldering streams.
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