The writer’s block.

              The Writer’s block. 

The poet in me seems to be dead

For garlands of  words I can no longer thread

No words no metaphors no rhythms nor rhymes

Illuminate   this benumbed mind that

 Struggles day and night to pen down a line, but in    vain.

Bodies pour in to satiate  sky licking flames  of pyres ,

Graves keep  adding,  carpeting the earth inch by inch,

With teary, grief stricken eyes, dear ones  helplessly stare

Impregnating the air with cries of despair 

Amidst such a  conundrum how can the mind remain sane.

Faith, like the virus,  shows  its various  forms,

Spreading  its roots deeper in  the hearts of  ardent believers ,

 Or unexpectedly   sprouting  in the hearts  of non   believers

Or trembles   like  a dried autumn leaf  in  the hearts of fakers

For they failed to  find a cure for their pain.

I helplessly watch   the helplessness of life on death beds 

 And raise my hands in the air, plunging in my sea of  faith ,

Seeking   answers to innumerable questions inundating  my mind and

Just then  a  fervent   prayer  escapes my quivering  lips,

Reverberating  in the silent night, it transforms  into  a poem,

A  poem  for God- Yes, the  poet in me was alive  again.

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