Life has moved forward,
Time turned to five seasons,
But I stand here still.
Here in this old attic,
With this half torn,
Yellow page from my diary,
Held in my heart!
Letters scrambled, yet!
Has a shade of a golden ink,
Over the edge of
Old blank inkpen's vomit,
Spread into million dots!
By tears fallen from eyes!
But now I share a laugh,
With that unrealistic,
First ever poem of mine!
The clash of faith,
And unknown reasons to end!
Mistakes are bound to happen
In the flames of passion,
I am burning it now,
Let it light my thoughts,
Let it show way,
To a new write,
May be a better one!
Yet a blue spark came from it,
And I heard a small cry!
After all, It was alive!
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Recovery by Magic Box )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
(1207 - 1273)
(24 January 1572 - 31 March 1631)
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