Photo by Gabriel Voltz on Unsplash

I Do Realise

Poetic Overwhelm

I read poetry
allowing words to tumble
through me
like the sonation of a bird
the babble of a stream
and conscious of the power
behind disengaged juxtaposed
wordings — humbled I bow

The minds of poets are theirs alone
to own and though I tiptoe
in to decipher and interfere
I but trespass this foreign universe
and neither acquire nor comprehend
its eloquence — some snippets yes,
an allegory here and a metaphor there
ceding in awe, I digress

I read poetry, yes, and honour
the maestros of the light
the bright and the darkness
of their minds — such depth.
I recognize and mildly fret
that though I, too, can sound
my words and write in verse
I will never be a poet

But still, I write poetry and love it.