Words, mere words
It seems to the uninitiated-
Un-rhyming, meaningless, useless.
Neither a haiku, nor a song,
A piece of the poet's thought-
Muddled.
Endless- like a strand of noodle
Baseless- like the scrawl of a two-year-old
Like the script of the Indus Valley Civilization-
Undecipherable.
But to the poet
It may be
A priceless piece of paper.
Scribbled in pencil,
Crossed out, erased.
Horizontal, then sliding, then wherever space permits-
Untidiness personified.
He pours in his heart, his soul.
It may be his mind, his all.
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