Sorrow does strange things

to all those living

that happiness

is incapable of doing

had it not been the case…

there would  have been

no great writing

nor authentic emotions’ outpouring per se

wrapped in whisks of cloud

the clan of writers and poets

eschew the real world

to fathom deepest pockets of imagination

tapping the repertoire of pent up emotions

they pen down  nuances of living

resting in heart’s generous folds

lopping overhanging imageries

placing phrases tacitly

they palpate vistas of unfathomable

pruning sentences

to cater to subtleties in store

Some pale ache

some wounded dismal episodes

a few haunting experiences

even some insightful nod

goad them to quill intricate details

help salvage their sorrowful state

as they consolidate and  hit back

at the stark long drawn darkness

One more time life rises like phoenix

from the ruins of an earthquake

spreads like molten lava

seizing being in deep embrace

absolute passion overwhelms

life’s rhythm

exhorts the delicate being

to pen down something exclusive

treading ripples of everyday happening

or even virtual proceedings.