some millions of faces
i could come across
they were paragon of beauty
they were all damsels
many of them were superb
handsome,smart and elegant
persons wearing faces
bearing seduction in races
but i stayed searching poetry
among all these gorgeous faces
i wonder how Byron could compose
"She walks in Beauty"
getting close to their psyche
i found nothing more ugly
than what they were
it's not like my search ceases
i carry still it on to find one
who may be ugly
but bearing the pathos of poetry
how morose i turn my home
with empty eyes
sometimes i blame me only
my eyes,my psyche got defunct
i cease to see what looks to be
but i swear all are clever
they know the art to know you
never ever
they all know minting money
out of the means all unfair
they know to tell lies
and belies their own words
i feel secluded and curse me
but they are the creations
of the same god
and perhaps god forgot me
the drops what the world brought
even nature has shed its Lustre
what Wordsworth visualized
life is so fast only accidents
wounded humanity bleeds last
Shelley crooned in his clamourous
dejections as no one extended
a hand to help the helpless
the distance between grave and home
is how far is too far or no far
the competitive world fleets fast
flicking of the moments of respite
to think of the past with no quest
once end remains alive in actions
but the action is no more an action
other than plundering killing hurting
and thus the man ascends the ladder
and shouts at the top of voice
to lure the attention of the attainments
hence where is poetry
i set out again in her quest
she is virtually found
within the ambience of a Mandir
holding a bowl begging and prying
straight into the faces
as if she were also searching poetry
with cries of unlimited woes
for a confluence of poetry
here the beggar poetry
old tattered worn out lying
among zillions of millions
never got composed by poets
for they are the bad patches
among the crimson gems
S.P.SINGH
D.A.V
i could come across
they were paragon of beauty
they were all damsels
many of them were superb
handsome,smart and elegant
persons wearing faces
bearing seduction in races
but i stayed searching poetry
among all these gorgeous faces
i wonder how Byron could compose
"She walks in Beauty"
getting close to their psyche
i found nothing more ugly
than what they were
it's not like my search ceases
i carry still it on to find one
who may be ugly
but bearing the pathos of poetry
how morose i turn my home
with empty eyes
sometimes i blame me only
my eyes,my psyche got defunct
i cease to see what looks to be
but i swear all are clever
they know the art to know you
never ever
they all know minting money
out of the means all unfair
they know to tell lies
and belies their own words
i feel secluded and curse me
but they are the creations
of the same god
and perhaps god forgot me
the drops what the world brought
even nature has shed its Lustre
what Wordsworth visualized
life is so fast only accidents
wounded humanity bleeds last
Shelley crooned in his clamourous
dejections as no one extended
a hand to help the helpless
the distance between grave and home
is how far is too far or no far
the competitive world fleets fast
flicking of the moments of respite
to think of the past with no quest
once end remains alive in actions
but the action is no more an action
other than plundering killing hurting
and thus the man ascends the ladder
and shouts at the top of voice
to lure the attention of the attainments
hence where is poetry
i set out again in her quest
she is virtually found
within the ambience of a Mandir
holding a bowl begging and prying
straight into the faces
as if she were also searching poetry
with cries of unlimited woes
for a confluence of poetry
here the beggar poetry
old tattered worn out lying
among zillions of millions
never got composed by poets
for they are the bad patches
among the crimson gems
S.P.SINGH
D.A.V
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