A Poem For The Poet

Who am I?

Ah, that's a truly deceiving puzzle.

To start with, I am an antique book,

With an unjustified cover.

My Caribbean blue orbs

Are an ocean of emotions.

This old and grubby mind,

A bookshelf containing millions of novels.

The best part is that this brain,

Doesn't simply helps me in traveling the world,

I can make a journey through history,

And do time a reverse.

I can wield my pen

To convert

The biggest of legends

Into the finest of words.

Even time, the greatest destroyer,

Cannot demolish my art.

I have the potential to immortalize empires,

While shattering the grace of others.

I am a revolutionary,

I am a wanderer,

I am a combatant,

I am a lover.

I can start conflicts,

Merely through my words.

And can laugh off,

The most catastrophic wars.

I can infiltrate anyone's heart,

Whether soft or cold.

Without even meeting with them,

With the aid of my books.

I can peek through anyone's soul,

I am blessed.

Not just the human race,

But the plants and birds.

My world is compared with that of a mad man's,

I don't know whether it's accurate.

But if his planet accommodates of free imagination and strong thoughts,

Then I swear I won't resist.

Many times

I can't understand who I really am.

I live distinct lives, in different dimensions,

Different worlds and many different universe.

You say I'm out of my mind.

Well, bingo! I know I am.

My mind can't sit still,

It has to wander through many unknown lands.

In the end, the words will run short,

But won't be able to narrate me.

Because I am the Lord of the words,

Who can narrate the most unexpected of things.