A Sense of Yearning

A story can be found in fugacious blossoms; Somewhere even in the tiniest speck of time; In the misprinted sentence lost in a book; In the redundant whisper at the end of a song. At times a word is all you desperately need, Instead of a tome, and that's when you see How beautiful one word can truly be. The love that you find in one talking star Can put a sky full of them to shame. Yes, beauty is like a drug when short-lived, And in this ephemera lies the love you deny. Tell me, why does beauty have to last? Why can't love come and go Like one unforgettable spring? Why can't you watch a flower bloom In awe, without the fear of losing it? Isn't transient beauty like a conscious dream In which we choose to live and love Knowing that morning isn't far? How can it possibly be more bewitching? Is it not incredible if one song can Make you want to run and fly and swim? Beauty and love does not have to last; There is no such rule; there can never be

Says the poet, “O divine little sunflower, You make my pen and my heart stop. There are no limits known, the enigma Of your surreal beauty cannot reach.” It is a fear that lingers in the rhythm; A fear of letting her watch his naked heart. It’s his love the poet shall never speak of. “What if she refuses to bloom?” Fear has myriad shades, but this shade Was no stranger; “We share a bond,” He says, “And for her I’m just the man Who waters her and watches her bloom. I am nothing more. I am nothing less. But does she know her place In every dream I have? Has anybody else Watered her the way I do? Has anybody else feared To not wake up to her effulgence? Maybe she knows,” thinks the poet, And he asks the Sun, who knows all, “Does she tell you about me?”  When the Sun goes down, the poet watches His little flower, still dispelling all the gloom, And his heart yearns to believe, “She knows.” A poetised riddle is what they share, and he Accepts, a poet in love is no