Posted in Poem

Where…XII

Where the fine mist is
turning into a dense fog.
Where a gentle and shy boy
is evolving into a juvenile rogue.
Where softness is evaporating,
leaving behind a dead log.

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Author:

Born as a child of human... nourished intellect enough to juggle with words to create few copyright statements (though inspired :P)

8 thoughts on “Where…XII

  1. After I read these lines, I heard the line in my mind: That is where you shall find me. It was as if your poem was an answer and I, the reader had to come up with the question. Wow. I’ve never been conscious of such an immediate interaction/conversation with a poet in his (or her) poem and it didn’t matter whether you heard my part or not. It was like you gave the poem away, leaving it to do what it will do whereever it goes. You gave it a life of its own.
    This is just beautiful.

    1. After writing Where…XII, I was wondering am I wasting my time trying to play with words? Do all these make any sense?
      These thoughts were genuine to some extent because when I write a poem, most of the time, I do not know what I am writing! I sit in a contemplative, waiting state letting the words flow out at their ease. Usually, I get surprising results.
      These are spontaneous outflow of words (or thoughts or feelings) and when these words reach the destination, the feeling is of a job well-done.
      Thanks a lot for expressing yourself so vividly. 🙂

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