Saturday, October 26, 2013

The daffodil dance

When William Wordsworth penned it down,
Golden daffodils painted the town,
Was it the flowers or the flowing stream,
Was it the solitude or his dream. 

I cannot tell what poets do,
Inspirations, imaginations, or just a singing cuckoo,
All I know, my mind blinds off,
Starts galloping like a horse.

It takes control of my thoughts
Holds my will as a wrought,
Penning it down is the only aim
Nothing works, no excuse lame. 

Today was such definite day
Down the stairs, I pave my way
I feel the breeze in my hair
The sun shines somewhere.

Listening to the rustle of autumn dry
The white cumulus flocks the sky,
The moment of smile, a sigh of relief 
Tonite with sleep, I would do a thief.