Poem is a subjective portrait of a poet’s mental landscape.
What woes lurk beneath that calm visage? The poet feels deeply and in a
precious moment of inspiration ventures out from his inner shell to part with
the pearls of his solitude. To him, every word rings true, each an embodiment
of a deep-seated emotion. What sense does it make to the uninterested onlooker
or the enthusiastic browser? Does the poet care whether he is understood? Does
he yearn for a soul that resonates with his own to come along? In the secret
altar where the muse resides, what tempests rage hidden? Does his heart quiver
as they break away from every shackle of reason and bursts forth laden with the
seeds of passion? Does nature hold her breath when the poet writhes in agony as
the pangs of a poem’s birth rends him asunder? Will she shed a tear for the
stillborn words that fail to touch upon any heart? Will she rejoice when his
words quench an inner hunger and ideas come alive in a flash of brilliance to
impregnate the hapless world that awaits his seeds breathlessly? Or is it a
schizophrenic delusion of grandeur that the poet suffers from? Does the world really
take heed? Yet, so tempting is the mirage of poetry that the poet wanders on
thirsting after its bewitching evanescent waters!
Weeks and months ebb away tidily,
The pen I wield not
Nor the painting brush.
There is only stillness;
Peaceful yet uneasy
For even in this silence
The lure of words endures,
Hidden in that empty space
Where only the blessed ones can enter. 
