I am no poet
For a poet is meant to be
A constant,
And I,
Keep flitting from the heroics
To being the victim,
And to being a mere onlooker
In this world full of stories
That wait afresh and raw
To be covered with a shroud of ink
On the deathbed of sheet
In the land of fantasy.
Better than a chamelion,
I change my colors,
From love to hate
And joy from pain.
Higher than ego
And brighter than a fake smile
I can make you melt
Into a puddle of in the mixture
Of fire and ice
For I do not know how to make someone
Smile or cry.
I cannot write
Just retrace the path the words
Guided me into
I cannot rhyme
For I cannot bleed ink and make
My muses a shrine.
I can just draw a few ink of swirls
As I make you one of the masterpieces
In an art I often fail
For I am not a poet
Just a wanderer linked to the stories shrouded in ink and sanctuarized in vain.
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