Starting
with a spark
Silently
smoldering my sleep
Whose
ashes I collect
In
the crucible of my conscience
With
a lancet I pierce my heart
for
a few drops of crimson ink
whose
pain fetches some tears too
And
all these I pestle
Though
in pain
To
etch my imagination
On
the sheaths of my soul
(I share this poem with my readers on the World Poetry Day!!! A poem about how a poem is born.)
(I share this poem with my readers on the World Poetry Day!!! A poem about how a poem is born.)
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