THE POEM OF MY HEART

THE POEM OF MY HEART

 

 

I sat on my chair with a deep-wounded heart

Facing downwards with no sign of art

My pen was lying dried beside

The paper was lying wrinkled beside

The folds ironed by my burning heart

The pen filled by my fluids of heart

I felt that the art was coming from top

Inflowing the brain, piercing the top

My hand moved slickly to fill up my paper

The blood-filled letters and words on the paper

I opened my eyes from my insentient stage

To perceive the piece of my heart on the page  

The shape of that piece was similar to verse

‘The poem of my heart’, I entitled that verse

 


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Deva
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