Poetic Hands

| Compilation of Poems and all that there is |

It wasn't.
No, it was not.

It wasn't really in a poet's lip where flower blooms, wither and die.
But in every gap of his fingers, broad palm, strong wrist and everything that makes up his hand.

It wasn't really in a poet's mind where words were born up until its later life.
But in every fleeting feeling and pain that ignites within his chest instead.

It was
Yes, it was.

It was where flower blooms that poets were born.
And It was when words sprout that poets were actually out.

Where there is art, there's a poet's heart.

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