writers who don’t write, Lovers who don’t love

Writing has been like love

she spent a lifetime

dreaming about love

so did she about writing

sometimes in her dreams

they intermixed and danced

like ‘theyyam’ in a trance of thoughts

like love itself where it is a task to find a lover

of heart and kind, as good as you think he should be

so it is with writing to find a page and fill it with thoughts

the dancing pen coursing through and noting ideas, dreams and aspiration

the sweat and blood of living, the pain of conception and the inability to reproduce

of long traumatic gestation that bends the heart with weight

the muse in either is case being vamoose

sandwiched amidst hopes, expectations and soar realities

throbs a dull ache that makes living plausible

whiffs of love, songs of yonder, tales of the worlds beyond

are in waiting

but not too long, not too long.

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