Pushpa Palanchoke Poet I do not know?

I'M His Poem

Red of cherry that I wear on my lips-

how on his chest, they sketch similes

I read them, find metaphors hidden and realize it’s a poem..

a heart grows inside me then- I myself turn into yet another poem.

last night, he wrote poem on me- all over me

and I attempted to do the same

I doubt if I failed? Since, I had him as my guru…

Wet souls were searching their thirst-

faint light of moon, I saw it glow right next to my pillow

It was raining outside, meanwhile I was raining too..

raining for I’d never rained before-

clouds did form sometimes, but I tell you, I’d never rained before,

raining- is not easy, you need a whole water cycle to complete

no cycle would get complete just like that

you would need both the pushing and pulling factors-the duality I mean, as defined by every philosophy

a coin needs to have two sides

my side had never found the other half of walnut,

with him, it was more than just a walnut, it was almond nut, it was nuts and nuts and nuts, nudes!!…oops…i mean all kinds of nuts

I just don’t know how and why I rained?

may be he was just too warm, unlike those who were very cold,

may be I gained the perfect temperature, created some thunder and made storm running in my nerves

and energy that those lightning created, or energy that created lighting? was powerful

- this power corrupted me

- I was so corrupted that I stole half of him- but, that was a genuine barter though, I gave him half of mine too,

cause,

Gandalf he was, magical

- he waited no call…

inside my little home, he maintained courtesy

reaching my hall and corridors, he knew exactly where to take-off the shoes

my chura-pauju orchestrated perfectly- when he inhaled me and again filled me with aroma he exhaled

I’m his poem now, he holds patent and copy-right on me-

he’s earned me.

these legal terms, are too materialistic I know, So I don’t care about them much

and I don’t have to I know

I actually am a secret project of him, nobody see me hanging on lead of his pencil and lines of his notebook

I am his poem..

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