A Pen Poem by Azitej Anand

For me, it's nothing;
  As I add roots to air:
For me, it's mere a game;
  As, I even glance the clouds behind the sun:

To me, the rosy dust on petals,
  Is sheer shadow of My holder's imagination:
To me, kissing the paper,
  Is to fuse the duly essence of My holder's perfection;

As you, not wandering other's truth by me,
 Is that you hovering yours own;
As you, a flashing eye on me,
 With floating arms:

Not me, it's My Lord;
  Only you, who adds me a blue wings,
And enables Morbid like us to sing:

Especially you,
  Who loves to shape our imagination;
And gives gate to your unconscious perfection: