A poet!

He could bind all in his words,
He could; the rising sun,
The lush green trees,
Birds humming their rhyme; everything.
He tries hard to sketch himself,
In some lines, some words.
But he fails and remains helpless.
Would he? Or wouldn’t he?
Who knows? Not even him.

He walks and walks the longer miles,
He sings and sings his lines out of rhyme,
He wonders and wonders some more,
In the theater of his mind,
Sense, he thinks makes or breaks,
Longing for it, forever.
Everything he makes,
Remains out of its own realms,
Wonder, wonder some more,
For a poet, he always should.

It’s been lying idle for a while now.

I cannot help but wonder why?

Its spring again;
It’s beautiful now;
Distracted by, the colours and the smell.

The spring must too end someday;
Winters! would return.

Is it then, you wait to walk again?
The roads once crossed.
You would wait that long ‘.’ ‘?’

A question?

The answer? .................................................