what makes me a poet, I wonder?
how am I different from the rest?
do I observe what others see,
or hear songs sung by silence?
does time slow down as I write,
and the world blur around me?
what thoughts can inspire me
as I sit in the shade, and wonder?
of these shadows, can I write?
just that, forgetting the rest;
even a leaf falls but in silence
only the world noisily does see.
so what does the world see?
maybe that’s what inspires me;
do they ever search for silence
or feel that sense of wonder
do they ever pause to take rest
from the drama that they write?
it’s not hard or easy to write,
just hard to observe than see;
the universe when it’s at rest,
or even going too fast for me;
just hard to sit and wonder,
where there world isn’t silent.
but the world I easily silence,
put words to thought and write
that ardent sense of wonder;
sometimes I can even see,
that completely tuned-in me,
when my soul feels at rest.
it’s when my soul feels at rest,
that I’m at ease with silence;
I let the words come to me,
let them show what to write;
that’s when I’m happiest to see,
to live, to be, to craft wonders.
my soul at rest, I start to write
the song of silence; I start to see
the world around me, and wonder.
(04 Sep, 2013)