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.