I usually see poems
Come to me through;
A window - like a signal
From fluttering leaves; asking me
To write what they want to say.
And then I sit, waiting for them
like an elder would wait for kids
to finish with their games and come back
and tell - what they felt; show
their bruises, share their smiles
The wait itself is so romantic.
Anticipating the soothing touch of wind
shall cleanse my soul; give me
A pious joy - never ending ecstasy.
That I'd preserve for eternity in ink.
But sometimes, my beloved; is angry
or annoyed with my melancholy; it comes
to me that day too, but just wears me
away. Its then looks back as it leaves
and says, 'Not Today'