Poetry

How would you discern, that I am a poet
How do I know, that I am one
I call myself one, but are you not
I call myself none, but are you not

Whom could you not, call a poet
And whom would you be, able to call a poet
For poetry is rhythm, it is in all of us
And poet is the one, with rhythm in his work

So not just in words, can poetry be written
It can be expressed, in every form and pattern
And just as our breath, like a swing comes and goes
So would our poetry, be it in word, or in deed

Hold not, to what you have
Attach not, to what you got
Let time choose, on what can now
Bend the string, in harmony true

Why then, would I wake

On lovely fresh mornings, with soothing breezes
Your hair soft, silky, while caressing my face
Kept away the first sun, so that I may sleep
Even if close eyed, this my love, you took care

Blithe after a bath, dripping wet hair on my face
You would hurriedly slip away, knowing I would chase
As pretentious your pace, my sleepy legs could gain
That prententious my laze, in wait of your mane

You wanted to be held, tight secure by my arms
After vulnerability one feels, right after a bath
You needed my touch, even before that, of the Gods
Weren't we for each other, reflection, of the Lord

No more a beautiful sparsh, than, your wet skin
No more a beautiful sight, than, your lit up face
No more a beautiful sound, than, your giggle, near my chest
No more a beautiful taste, than, my kiss, on your brow
Had this life known, why then, would I wake