Aniruddha Pathak Poems

Disbelief dear, always root-dwelling cause,
Disrupted it has things, see history:
Buddha had question what old belief was,
Martin Luther had, Roman church's glory,
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My ego rising tall from a plane lay,
I often feel, the world warms to my song,
To play a second fiddle, lost in fray,
And I conduct orchestra all day long.
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Pursuing thee for long,
Thick and thin, right or wrong,
What not have I achieved?
Alive that never lived,
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If this home by home-maker is made,
He mused on this existential dark:
Who am I, one that brings home mere bread?
The truth stared at him ever so stark!
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The egg lives on— caterpillar to be,
And this voracious worm when sheds its skin,
To hide unto a shell all so hardy,
Gets born alive, be butterfly within,
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The year 2020's ready to leave,
Need there's to feel bereaved, nor grieve;

The year of meagre earnings,
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I see my mind as I see vast seaside,
And thoughts like random waves fading away,
They rise, recede like waxing-waning tide,
Yet some, like weeds survive their welcome stay.
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What poetry
Is, should someone ask me,
It's a four-sided rhombus
Not an omnibus.
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A man when subtracts
His sorrows and discontents
From joys that life lets,
With pleasure his sorrows dents,
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A village was flooded
Leaving many dead,
A man who could not swim
Managed to climb a tree,
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