THE POET

The man I wrote about in my poems,
Emerged victorious
And I celebrated my defeated solitarily
While he celebrated with his readers,

He was a quiet man
So quiet that he never spoke a word
Yet his emotions and feelings were conveyed
And I became jealous of my own creation.

The ultimate conquest of every man
Is to find his ‘self’
But even in my poetry
I failed to understand the poet in me…

And what step should I take before I die,
To relieve the burden of the aged poet in me
For he has dispersed himself in every colour,

And for the same reason
I grieve for his suffering more than mine
Because even though he found words and readers,
He never found the real peace in his finished verse,