No, I’m not a poet. My language turns poetic when I write of Kashi.
Prose fails when emotions mingle with thoughts; with thoughts emotions, burst open floodgates of mind-reservoir.
Ideas take shape to flow on pages.
Make pools of lines that sometimes reflect ideas in shape.
I know it’s madness to live in past: times and places. I know I’m mad.
I live at only one time in past that happens only at one place.
Into the present it oozes dissolves the sense of present places and times.
Day dream I would, had I the courage to follow my heart in dreams of day.
There was a time when I, the king sat planning tomorrows rewriting yesterdays.
And then, it happened: change. Things were never the same again.
Modified from my poem published at http://www.the-criterion.com
The Criterion: An International Journal in English ISSN: 0976-8165