Poet 101

They say,
poets don’t have a future…
Just a dream of it.

Eyes set on clouds of present,
messed hair and wrinkled clothes,
for moisture just dried off them,
post farewell of last rainfall.

Books drunken -ragged gown,
letters in pockets, scattered
now on the golden browns,
as frozen fragrance of dry flower
reeks from cold palms.

A keep situated
far from the madding crowd,
as green carpet lavished the floor;
creeks in the dry pastel colors,
this painting,
that hangs beside the door.

Hands tied together
like waves with unbreakable bond.
And hugs like sun kissing an ocean
right before it drowns.
Bidding adieu, salty lips whisper,
“see you, again”, to love just found.

Birds dancing on
the walls of a vacant house,
sporting flags of invitation
boasting subliminal colorful town.
Yet, alleys heading towards this palace,
has intersections with echoing sound,
from closets full of nostalgia,
and empty swings – with whom
the air plays around.

Feet sunk in a dense pit,
body looking like a sculpture
just discovered out of the pyramid.
As sweat married sand particles,
while eyes wandered in wilderness,
hunting for the oasis.

Part miles and decades
from the crimson fountain
holding water that mirrors the soul.
Yet, taste of a passionate kiss,
of an evening of dreams,
still circling the elixir in mouth.

Days getting shortened
painting the golden crowns,
and nights growing longer,
dressed in the silver gowns.
Some tunes contemporary
being played in welcoming halls,
but lips humming
lines of a nostalgic song…

Wheels turning clock-wise
on long empty roads,
while heads resting on back-seats,
tilting a time on slope…
A journey measured in stars crossed,
for those one left behind,
or ones that would come forth…

They say, poets, often don’t have a future…
Just a dream of it.
And perhaps, words a few
to paint on the weary walls…