I thought it was time,
To compose a little rhyme.
Maybe a rhyme full of love. Maybe a rhyme full of hate.
Maybe a rhyme that would make me famous, one that would alter my fate.
A rhyme more rich than all of the world's folklore.
A rhyme which would rival a Tarentino in poetic gore.
So I sat down with single minded determination,
To weave a rhyme that would trigger fascination.
I plugged in my laptop because sheer genius must not be limited by battery.
The poem was to appeal to all; it was to be an ode, not just some form of cheap flattery.
And I began in earnest, with the only subject which came to my head.
Love it had to be, because that's what earns poets their butter and bread.
Love, beautiful , uncomplicated like that which a mother feels for her child.
Or love that makes strong men feel weak and makes nice girls go wild.
Love it could be for music, it could be love for food or wine.
It had to be a love I could describe, a love that could be mine.
It was then that I paused, for poetry requires that moment of inspiration.
The moment that would define the ultimate fate of my creation.
The pause was pregnant with uncertainties untold.
I observed as I felt in my mind the poem unfold.
My subject couldn’t be clearer, the lines stood out in bold.
A rhyme of such beauty, from this world I could not withhold.
My fingers reached the keyboard, but falter they did each time.
For what the heart wanted to say, the mind could not set to a rhyme.
The abilities of a poet, amateur as me could not define.
That which is so pure, so beautiful, so divine.
A poem I could write; a rhyme I could compose.
About the mighty sun or the beautiful rose.
But the very words rebel as I try to describe love in a rhyme.
They mock me and smile, telling me that it isn't yet time.
They tell me that wait and you shall see the day,
When even we shall respond to you; like to a potter, his clay.
And the time will come when your words will take flight like a dove.
And describe to the world, the beauty of love.
For now I rest, the promise of tomorrow easing the disappointment of now.
Fondly I shall remember for years to come, the day that I set out to write a poem on love.
- Pranay
