she..herself..she alone...

to brush up
the dormant skill
of carving a live poem,
here he goes,
hiding the sorrow
of being unseen
and of being accused
of acting in love,
and in lust too...
what can quench
the thirsty mind of
his beloved ?
what answers can
make her satisfy?
or is she one
who actually satisfies?
she never comes with
straight questions but
stimulus of doubt
flows through
her eyes ..
and beware
of those mighty drops
of fierce attack
that penetrates even
the unshaken souls,
how else can life
be written as a poem
of the beauty and mystery
his lady love has?
however
firm and focused
is the poet now,
starting his
so called magical rhythm..
..
oh this life..
her..
oh this life
her..
here she comes,
not letting the poet..
pity him..
look at his hands,
trembling to write..
here she is..
as his sunset,
as his finest poem,
as his only last hope..
as his love's penalty
as his lust's extra
as he himself..
what else
of poem and poetry..
come on..
it is she, herself
and she alone..
...