To be a poet is a terrible thing
To be a poet is a terrible thing
To be a living breathing being
To eat to sleep to dream mundane lying
Amorphous yet crystalline
Fine etched and tightly wound
Slow to change yet swift to respond
Far more hurt to receive than give
The soul crucified the heart forgives
The art is a single part
Yet the sum of the tawdry sundry parts
Greater than the whole
Sometimes I think the poet
Usurping light
Becomes black hole...
And the best of his hideous heart
Released as finest distillate
Misunderstood and misinterpreted
In an alien universe.
All rights reserved
(c) Amrita Valan 2015
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