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Becoming A Poet



The feeling of emotion, the beginning, the meaning of emotion, the end. When these crossed at the edge of my twilight time my mind started to sink at sunset, unexpressed. After the futile walk through the clouded day the garden path I had lost, searched a hand to guide and show me the way where the unknown roads had crossed. When the day’s last wind began to blow, in the wasteland of past my shadow lengthened on the frail footprints buried under the dust, while the roads to the future waited, crossed. I traveled through the turmoil, I had forgotten the bridges left behind for I burnt them all. I chose the road and crossed the river ahead on the bridge you had built for me. Good times and bad times, cross-currents of contrast in skeptic mind’s confusion, that cleared as the mist of doubt lifted, and I saw the road ahead wasn’t at its dead end. Life’s story written on time of flowing continuum, at the end of a sad chapter challenged me to choose if I’d turn the page or close the book, I had decided to read on. At the crossroads of crowded compromise degrading, and the silent crumbling in loneliness passionate, following the moonlit path the dreams tread on, I rose from the dust and became a poet.
September 18, 2019

Copyright © Subimal Sinha-Roy | Year Posted 2019

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