Posted by: Prem Piyush | October 13, 2008

The Poet’s Soul


Tonight – She said to Him.
With whom, She was in love.

“I am your poem.
Draw me – the shades of mine.
Feel me – like ever.
I am here – sing me.”

She slept with tears –
On the blank page.
Old diary pages has turned yellow.

He kept silent,
A puppet without soul,
Strings tied thy’s hands.

His pencil wished,
Decorate the lines,
That makes Her eyes.

His fingers wished,
To caress the curves.
The way the feelings swing.

His lips wished,
Sing her in the moonlight.
When Breeze binds them.

In the morning,
She lifted her head up –
From the diary,
Where –
The words – touched her cheeks,
Throughout the night.

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