Thursday, March 21, 2013


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.)

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