A Poet In Me Is Dying

I don't remember, when this poet in me was born What I remember is his softening of heart, Growing on the head and hunger to write. With so much pain around This world has suffocated The thoughts that freely lingered. These flying thoughts roaming in the freedom of the air returned from the painful journey by being severely hurt with pains floating around. The poet in me has seen the nature's beauty With admiration and jubilation And wandered from dawn to dusk It travelled on the flight of the air By flapping the wings of happiness Spreading the message of peace And collected the blessing of the Almighty Spread all across the path to the wisdom Today, Alas, In polluted air with hatred floating around the despair wings struggle to flap and find its way to pureness of wisdom It travels on a never ending painful path It sees the sea of suffering heads Hung before the shameless devils Sucking the blood from innocent veins Fulfilling their thirst of greed And enjoying the cry around. The poet in me is crawling In its knee, wounded and broken Truly is shaken by the war and the cry Of hapless souls carrying the rotten body They walk to meet my writing desires And narrate their painful story Which my mind imagines not Nor my skills approve to jot down I let my silent body, to take over The whirling mind with bubbling thoughts And embrace them under its armpit And sing a lullaby to make them sleep forever.