Life As Such Makes Me Sometimes A Poet

See how the day comes to close
So quick and so brief like a rose
Bloomed and withered when little known
And I’ll mourn lying down
Cheerless and alone
Looking at the sky and the stars and the moon
Warbling sad notes of optimism
That tomorrow shall bring me fortune and wisdom
And not known amidst my anxiety and weariness
When I submit to my visitant’s wish
Of a quite slumber at this early hour
Of night until unfolded is the day like a flower
Graced with dews and sunshine
Wafting gently in the morning breeze
The fragrant breath of joys of my toil,
My sweat, my industry, my energy and my travail
Under whose delicate touch open petals of my day
In which I endeavor to render them with the hope’s ray
Brighter than the sun
And purer than the blessed light of heaven
For my heart always seeks to stay complacent
With being a man of low profile as a peasant
Though I strive to bloom infinite flowers of smile
In the face of my countrymen as if my own soul
With lots of grain, vegetable, fruit and food
My struggles seem not to end with a loaf of bread
When I think this life as good as a burden
For I have money sufficient to go to heaven
But insufficient to go for hell of things
For the sustenance of this life as I am failing
To meet both ends of my children and wife
Oh, my friend tell me is this life?
“See I wished to die every day and even today
But God postponed it to another day and next day
Telling me to be as patient as weather as this wandering clime
Of life would bring some rain in a while
And in between rain and dry spell I saw life
In a cup of grief overflowing its brim with joy’s relief
Of purple flowers and garlands green
And a sun that nothing could cloud but to shine”
Mused and mused while sipping the tea of lemon
In a stall with no roof and walls and could be seen
The sun above dropping down in the west
And the sky rimmed with color amethyst
Until my interruption to decorate
Him a real philosopher-poet though he writes not
Nor his soul ever seen to throb audibly as today
As delivering offhand verse of stresses and strains intermittently
Here amidst philosophy in a soliloquy
Things oft heard poetized while in pain and agony
And at length uttering forth perhaps a fit peroration
Not without let or thrall as “life is a narcotic-an anodyne
Despite euphoria, stupor, or coma or oblivion
We love to be intoxicated with it often”