Mumtaz N K
I penned a poem in a text
And it ran right across.
I attempted to have it fixed,
mounted to the page,
From where it ran astray.
I thought
A tack would pin its rougish feet.
Yet
Foot by foot it abandoned
the page,
Until words were sheltered
in the depths of a lake.
I heard them slosh
Splish splash
Child-like sounds in abandon make.
Then, in a passing moment
Bluish strains emerged
The lake- a swirl of paint,
Surely,
’Twas the lapping waves
That sounded the words,
Luring me to tempt them out
Mocking in merriment
Wrestling with my arms,
That tried to gather them.
Oh! My ink washed away!
Simply Wow! What a beautiful composition 🙂
Thank you, the composition speaks of the banality of writing.
Loved the last sentence💚💚💚💚
Thank you, very much!
Inspired by a theory, no piece of work can actually belong to an author who births it.
Lovely thought….!! Never thought of writing im that way
Hi Jaya, yes it suddenly struck me that a thought or words/ cluster of letters never belongs to an author, they are like traipsing children, escaping the author’s attempt to capture them.