Sometimes when poems come, they do not really follow a pattern. It is more about the content than the form, and in that regard some poems are special in their own ways. I could call it freestyling, and get away with saying that this was how I intended it – to be with no rhyme and so random that it reads more like prose. But the only reason I call this a poem instead of calling it a paragraph of lines, is that it gives me freedom with respect to the three things I am always wondering and second-guessing about – punctuation, tenses and line structure.
P.S.: Yes I am an editor. (And no, not with respect to this blog.)
We are air and fire – both of us
While you are air, I am not
The breath that fuels the sweltering flame,
Haze of heat that spirals away
Shimmering, glistening, filled with hate
What drives us, you and me?
Hopelessly towards each other, wanting
Needing, maybe a bit deserving
Only air can fuel a raging fire
Which dies an early death without.
Consuming everything in its power,
And then seeking some more…
I shrunk harder the more I ate
Nothing quenched me, or even tried!
Can this dance happen again?
Soft, swift and sensuously done?
When the fire showed its true colours,
It was always water that boiled
The air remained purely untouched,
Only warmer, and quickly dissipated!
Everything solid knew carnage,
But whimsical air won over, quietening fires
Fanning, enraging, working up the fury,
Then leaving lacking, wanting and bereft!
What power does air have, in making the world bow to it?
A breeze, a tempest, and breathable winds –
A flickering candle and its fire
Snuffed by the wind but lit by air
The force is all that matters
Every time I dance softly,
Buffeting gusts of wind affect
What was once my steady flame!
I wonder at least once a day
Would life have made it all different –
If you had been the fire and I, the air?
The happy post is here!