The Prismatic Self

“This contest my poem will win, because it will make the sponsor grin.”- By Poet Poetry Soup gives in plenty the literary opportunity to show-case the assorted skill of poetic creativity, emanating out of the fantasy fountain of imagination. The torrent of words flows with the streams of elation, ripples as poems with the rhapsodic rhythm of heart, yearning to become poignant pieces of reflective art. In the terrain of undulating emotion topography I saunter as the part time poet of twilight. My verses surge like the mountain streams, the courses unpredictable, carving the vale of impulse, cascade down with poignant power of rhythm. The leaping waters swirl around the mid-stream pools, where in the obscure depth of passion the pearly beads of emotion lie. I raise them one by one for the poetry contests that offer the inspiring literary frame, so the poems can get a place in an apt showcase. It’s not to earn any accolade or fame for the bards, for nobody here is running a poetic race. The contest entry is the choice of my free will, as there is limitless options to totally ignore many, avoid the similar contests of high frequency, unfollow the erudite sponsors’ edict plenty. Free from the chains of perplexing themes and fancy forms, if my unbound muse is a bird in the open sky, why cage it behind the bars of dictated norms, why not on its carefree and cheerful wings let it fly.