Poem Being Written

This poem is a response to Aminah Tasleem‘s very intense piece… “Be my poem, I want to write you.“

—

“As you write to me… I’m a poem being written!”

Book not “unread”, but the one buried being hexed – marked cursed.

A book torn apart,
of whom each page is scattered,
for no consolidation later.
Unless by the One,
who shred it
in the crime of passion.

Letter not “undone”, but one that’s burned right after the reading.

A letter, written in symbols,
of whom each alphabet is ciphered,
for no comprehension later.
Unless by the One,
who wrote it
under intoxication of love.

Rose far from the “book”, but from the bouquet left on the grave of foe departed.

A rose with stark color petals,
of whom fragrance is dispersed,
to never be captivated by beholder.
Unless by the One,
who planted it
in soil of worth.

Pearl not “cryptic”, but a rock under erosion due to an affair with the ruthless motion.

A pearl so transparent,
of whom nothing gets filtered,
to ever be possessed by the hunter.
Unless by the One,
who shaped it
with skin of bewilderment.

Cloud not “dark”, but fog so light, lost in air, mixing with dust storms of desert.

A cloud made of unseen radiance,
of whom light remains unparalleled,
ceaselessly overwhelming the witness.
Unless for the One,
who orchestrated it
with sound of explosion.

Ocean not without “Sun”, but one that has absorbed the star and is now burning with-in.

An ocean full of star dust,
of whom each particle is lit with fire,
drowning those who want to swim.
Unless for the One,
who set it blazing,
with enlightening smile.

Wanderlust not seeking a “guide”, but one that’s seeking to be lost in the wilderness.

A wanderlust on the path of expansion,
of whom each way leads to new indulgence,
engulfing those who seek some place.
Unless for the One,
who creates the labyrinthian,
whirling around the effulgence.

And being one missing already… like an air from the planet, I request observer to move on, to search a base with life to inhabit.

Missed are the ones, from there place,
who set their eyes on the illusion…
Missed are the ones, from the very moments,
who come to know the truth behind the appearance.

Think of me – I’m verse being remembered…
As you write to me – I’m poem being written!

– Dedicated to two opposite dimensions that reside with-in single entity: Personalized pessimism vs. Mystic optimism.

Image Credits: atilazz.deviantart.com