The Trial

The curtains open

I take the backstage

For I am the creator, the poet, the state.

To begin my story, no time to wait:

Take the pen and write

Insecurities, inner turmoil

Put it all in black and white,


Words don’t fall at perfect places

Nor do they tie together to make any sense

They just stand there


Wondering which way should they head?

Should they stick by, close at heels?

And join together to form some cool switch?

Or be ready to jump by

Take a leap

And run dry?

Should they snuggle, and work at their heart’s desire?

Sweat it out and then form a new tie?

But no matter how much they try

They only stupefy

Stumped they fall down

The black and white

All mixed around

Clumsy I say, not a pretty sight,

To see my words

All fail down

As the curtain finally slams shut,

They form a hurdle , a group

Silently they crawl away

Echoing these words, they say

“Apologies to you my dear writer

You are no poet, no fighter

Your thoughts too simple

Too meek

No high verse, no inner trial

No erratic behaviour

You are in a mire

Take a break and get a thinker

Look around and pause

Make way for a cause

May be then you can call

Our letters will respond

They will surely form a chain

Fight. Flight, Insecurity, Games



Or fame?

Or may be you can write of

The five sins

Gluttony, Lust , Vanity and Pain?

Indecision. Hope. Regret and Might?”

All right, all right, I say.

If this is what a poet writes

I better walk away,

And so my show clamped shut that day

The theatre’s still empty, by the way

There are no games

No cheers, no pride

Just empty chairs

My words

Their fight



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