Sunday, February 20, 2011

Some untitled non-proseful writing

Jeez. I never thought I'd write something like what I've written below. But then again, I'd never thought of doing several things I've done so far in my life. I have long held views that I am not a poetry person, and really by golly I may not be one, and what I've just written may not be classified as poetry, oh don't you know.

I hope you did not read the title as "Some untitled non-purposeful writing", since that may well be the title of most of what I write (as I often joke - but this joke is getting stale I think). But this piece of writing I couldn't classify as prose or for that matter expand into something more substantial without sounding either too preachy or appearing to be in a pathos mood (or preaching something in a pathos mood) It rather suggested itself to me that that the style of writing was a little poetic, even if it doesn't rhyme, and I am told that they need not as well. So for the lack of a better word, I choose to call it poetry - you are free to call it what you may. Reading this you may feel that my puns were bad, but my poetry is verse. However as this could be one off case, rest easy if you share that opinion (btw do share your opinion even otherwise)

So without much further ado, I present to you that-which-I-cannot-call-prose-but-chose-to-classify-as-poetry:

However narrow the sandclocks throat,
still manages to dash hopes that,
some day the time may fully stop
on moments remembered, opportunities lost.

Through cupped hands the water seeps,
never reaching that parched throat;
A forgotten dream, recalled in vain.
Minutes and seconds of a wonderful life.

Of words that were better left unspoken if,
to silent regrets of those that were;
What boiling blood - the heat of the moment,
And of cowardice that crept upon the heart.

Often turning our backs we hark the past,
even as we know, what he has to say.
I know you long for me still,
but all this was done, and remains only so.

Were we really puppets on a string, 
controlled by a force above?
Or did we bring upon ourselves this,
remorse and regrets, in the winter of life.

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