I may be tiny but my dreams fly high I aspire to touch the glorious sky Over mountains and oceans I will soar Hundreds of lovely places I'll explore Villages and towns, deserts and deep caves Islands, sandy Beaches, and monstrous waves Cliffs and canyons, forests and snow-clad hills Every place offers some amazing thrills From travelling, immense joy I derive To fulfil my dreams, hard I ought to strive
Bits of snow get struck in my hair, Light rays piercing the clouds fall on me. What else will freeze, Other than my heart? Until the wood in fireplace is over, I'm going to think. But what use is it? I'm helpless that I'm putting more wood into it. And unable to stop thinking, I am not even getting to blink. Replaying all those memories in mind, Those days with clear sky and clear mind. Nothing did bother me, but butterflies, I do love my Inner child. I remember hearing a voice in past, The voice of the me from future. I can't get out of these memories forever. Into everything, I pour myself, Whatsoever I'm trying so harder. I meet the one I've known all my life, It's myself, I'm in love with myself.
A poem should start with the poet's evanesce Afar where his insight and fancy coalesce. To a nacarat meadow of dahlia and daisy; Of cosmos and orchid and tulip and poppy.
Decoding the whispers of forests in twilight; Witnessing the gay shades of mountains upright; Gliding over clouds making pastel from pollens; Releasing despair like the flying dandelions.
Ceased telepath to the older times Trotting in a carriage by the country side. Lyrics of a song and notes that rhyme Capering to the ensorcel wind chime. Or it gallivants to the future in a coaster ride Exploring the wynds and wonder magnified.
A piece teeny, like a hummingbird, or Longer, like the wings of an albatross. A poem is an offshoot of a beautiful dream, Or the shadow of the poet's enduring scream. Idea more luculent, voice to be heard, Message peeping through the maze of words.
It should be the lantern to those lost in rawky, Or wand effacing layer of obnubilate frothy. A poem is an echo of mute emotions, Soliciting to churn bliss from the depth of its ocean.