Monday, August 6, 2012

A poem about a writer.

There he goes,
Look at him,
For he has the most adventurous job ever.
He travels to places,
He has smelled beautiful fragrances,
He is a son, a brother, an animal, a killer,
An insect , a child, a mother, a mirror.
As random as you could possibly
Imagine; Imagine a river,
He could be a pebble, he could be the loam,
Whatever the storyline demands, he shall deliver.

There he goes,

Look at him,
For he has the most romantic job ever.
Every emotion is not felt by him
Even then he imagines,
What would it be like to be in love?
Yet that temptation is resisted by him.
How would it feel to get your heart broken?
What would it be like to deliver a baby?
What would it be like to have your memories stolen?
His mind's eye can take any shape, any form.

Now,

I wouldn’t know if it is by choice
That he dreams,
Of so many colours and so many themes.
Because he is yet to live through them himself?
Or has he actually seen it all? Felt it all?

There he goes,

Look at him,
For he has the loneliest job ever.
Nobody sits beside him
And guides his hand.
Nobody has traveled with him
To his wonderland.
Yet he brings to us
The sweet fruits of that tree
Which he nurtured all by himself,
From a tender acorn to a sturdy oak
 And bearing the fruits of his thought.

There he goes,

Look at him,
For he has the most rewarding job ever.