The lone soul,
The gentle genius
with magic hands creating
sculptures of life .
The hands of fate guide,
the flows of her movements,
as they unfold stories to be told.
Each sculpture a direction taken,
to speak for the forsaken,
the quiet multitudes whose ,
hearts hum with words on the run.
Life lives on in these moulded images,
Each one a question to be answered,
Unspoken words, silent gestures,
hold torrents and torments of,
tears , fears and near ones held dear.
Undulating is the landscape ,
in which they stand,
asking themselves the answers,
no-one will ever tell.
A make-believe town of mute people,
A small strip of land in which,
life eddies and flows,
Time forced to go slow.
The gentle genius of sorrows untold,
carefully folds wet clay ,
in mounds of questions unsounded,
to lay bare in the open,
shouting out loud to the crowds,
that gawk at the sculptures,
like hungry uncaring vultures.
The genius sings her song,
for the people that reside,
In the recesses of her mind,
And they call her blind,
Why she does so ?
Nobody can any reason find.
Only the elements nod their approval
through the wind chimes.
YOU ARE READING
Alone
PoetryBeing alone is the silent journey to the inner self...where no one holds sway except oneself.... A collection of poems seeking to understand this intrinsic state of the mind and soul..... The beginning and the end....
