(Written in 2005 while I was in University, A Tribute To Poets- My Brethren)

The End


Its a charm that a poet weaves,
Fabrics of dreams that never sleep.
His kind though, could never defend, 
The marching onslaught of an imminent end.

The dreams never slept, or so they say,
Through leaves of autumn and their soliloquay.
So I spin the yarn from where they left,
To clothe those thousands who are bereft.

Dreams are but thoughts unfold,
Bearing the seeds of a future bold.
Roaming free on the chariot of time,
Waiting to be cast on minds divine.

And its time who stops by;
Casting the dream on another eye (I),
Which should creatively see it through;
While the crusaders gently in the maternal crib lie.

The end approaches in numerous phases; 
Much like the lives of great sages.
It awakens, calms, matures and reveals,
Another gate of thought, to higher fields.

The ordeal is a circle profound.
Cut to angles, but is at the centre bound.
Into each of them, the poet is ushered,
Until his human cage is punctually severed.

Then rises others from the cribs, 
Walking the sphere with tightened lips
Till they know how to gently weave,
The fabric their guides did with history leave.

Each thread adds to a greater purpose,
To cover the circle of thought they chose.
But its easy to see the irony in those,
As the circle expands with ideas of future tomorrows.

Thus we try to immortalise,
Profound thoughts which cannot be sufficed.
Because every moment an idea is born,
And the stitched fabric yet again is torn...

Such is the beauty of what poets think,
Which stems from the same central link.
But all inching to a different course
To reach the arc beyond the receding brink