A piece of poetry is a manifestation

Of the self in a form

Unadulterated by realities

And unrestricted by pretences

Old Stories. .

Are we writers or actors, you and I?
I guess it’s like an opening act
Of every play, we were introduced
But ourselves we crafted each scene
With patience and tact.

Did we crumble the paper each time?
We just inaudibly brainstormed
An embryonic idea, we quietly refused
The ordinary or unexceptional but chose
The one that was majestic and splendid.

Did we follow the plot as directed?
I guess we just played our part
Like the sailors at sea, workers in a factory
Soldiers at war or citizens by a decree
Eternally in sync from the very start.

Were we separated or together?
Writers don’t depart from their story line
But all is not blissful and cheery
Sting is released onto the actor’s life
“Part of life”, they say, “It will be fine.”

Did we bring our panache into the act?
Like natural actors and their flair
Embodiment of the tragic and heroic
Story is there for readers to read
But splendor we bring

- Niral

...to be continued . .