Words fail me at this late hour
To write what I want to
How to write what I want to write
Maybe even Walt Whitman;
While they have written
What they wanted to write
Why do I feel something more
Still awaits to find words
Do I know something they did not
Do I feel something they never did
Aren’t truth and love as old as those hills
Does old wine taste better in new bottles
This search, this waiting, this anticipation
That something awaits our discovery
That something awaits its story to be told by us
Is perhaps something being wrought
In the devil’s workshop lodged in an idle poet’s brain
Or maybe at the end of the day
When one has come back home
From the pursuit of one’s calling
(Please don’t call it “making a living”)
At long last one wants to be distracted
From the passions of that calling
And that distraction comes in many flavours
For some it maybe the beloved’s arms
For some it maybe gin and tonic
For some it could be football or religion
(Vivekananda stirs in his grave
To see football alongside religion)
For some it could be the coffee house
Where they hope to meet someone like Sartre
For some others it could be music or movie
And for some it is the delusion
That words will uncover the secrets of the universe
To humour them and make them dream
I am writing at this late hour.
Know Thyself 