Keep Parched No Karmic Pot

Every poem penned may not get writ well, Some bloom, some wilt, some see not much of light, A full moon wanting to cast silver spell, Dawn dawning, submits to her splendours bright. Not all pens get to reach the depth of heart, Nor all of life may from a dream dreamt stem, Some get withered by old nightmares apart, And fail to imprint their lasting emblem. Man toils still all the same, hindrance nor let, Tries spreading dream blossoms on a tall bough, And yet, few what they greed may ever get, Alas, soil seeds or not, one ought to plough. Man ought to sow seeds— wild rather than not, And never once keep parched his karmic pot. _______________________________________ Sonnet |02.12.2020| Topic: life, death, poetry (of life), work/karma