Poet In The Mirror

Of late I have been plagued,

With a question, I forgot where

I borrowed from, but to bury it down,

I must unearth, it's one honest answer.

The question goes here,

Why should I, of all men, write?

Is it not worth to seek the purpose before 

Delving into the abyss of verses.

Is it because I love words?

But words have never sought me

To admire them, in the market place,

Love, I reckon being told, is a private affair.

Is it because I love the fame?

Then, I should call my morals,

For never is art, measured by likes,

But only in the solace, it offers the weary mind.

Is it that I am heartbroken?

If that's true, then it's better to

Move on, spread wings and kiss the

Sky, than to mourn the loss of ground.

Is it that I am so learned?

Oh, stop flattering yourself, the

One true knowledge is in realising,

That you know nothing, of all there is.

Is it all just to woo women?

May it be the wrath of dead poets,

But over the years, my lonely self has,

Learnt to love, the company of solitude.

Maybe I am a miserable writer, who

Claims to love yet fails to word them,

Burdened with questions, that I borrow

Just to share, causing minds to mayhem.

© Nirmalya Panigrahi