The poet wished to cry out loud
And vent the slithering pain
Yet void in his sinking heart
Won't let him flee this blain.
The pen then oozed in torrid red
To scribe 'bout the hovering gloom
Yet mind feared to find the words
Which would write the poet's doom.
If the poet broke his promise
No flower would ever bloom
So pen hid the poet's torment
Within a heap of silken plumes.
Prashant Shaurya ©
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Copyright © Prashant Shaurya | Year Posted 2017