The poem we sung

"Poetry to me was hugely vague,
and the words never made sense.
See, everyone was doing it
and they all seemed to say the same things.
It wasn't special,
a very odd way of expressing oneself. "

"We played with words and toyed with visions,
creative imagination was our reason to source for ideas.
Nobody liked to read as much,
save for the few friends and family we had.
We chose a sport no one saw need for
but the few who stumbled upon us
found a reason to sing. "

An orchard of dreams is what we had left,
clustered hopes of a failed tomorrow
bunched into an inconceivable idea.
The violin strings did not fiddle with our fantasies
and the foods we ate tasted something like disgust.
We were never satisfied
and maybe that's why we were never invited to the high table.
The lonely nights paraded our dreams
and despair lurked in the shadows.
The creepy moon only reminded us often
that we didn't have much to offer the world during daylight.
And what pained the most,
is that we had forgotten who we really were.
We had lost feeling for anything real
and our lives had become crazily busy.
We were all somehow obsessed with this stupid thought,
that if we looked like we were doing something
people would be more proud of us.
It's funny how they still never did
and the pretense game we played so skillfully
was child-play to who we were in us.
We were big.. so huge, bigger than life!
but we were yet to find out.

- A poem is written -

We sat by the Humber river as we listened to the river hum by.
It was a beautiful feeling and I could tell we were daydreaming.
Something was different about today;
the winds were gentle and the sun needed no shade.
The clouds looked spaced out and the blue sky was intriguing.
Something about our generation, nevertheless,
phones always had to get flipped out.
Small gadgets that our lives seemed to revolve around

and we needed them, somehow,
to stay connected to our own little solar systems.
So a message would show up,
and one link would lead to another,
the tweet the birds tweeted led us to a forest,
found ourselves by a river
and we stumbled upon a poem.
A poem so beautifully crafted, it would make you cry..
Each word served its purpose
and every intonation dwelled in its right place.
This poem played with so many of our feelings
all at the same time! 

I promise you, no one was ready.
See, the poem was a perfection of art.
It was everything artistic and music was its soul.
This poem embraced you so tight,

it could leave you breathless.

Few had withstood to the end,

but those are the ones who walk with a tune

repeatedly playing in their heads,

haunting them for a while.

This type of poems held you hostage

and their aroma smelled different types 

of deliciousness.

It was a plate well served

and we were villains well starved.

So the hands were washed, waters of the river,

dried, plates involved and the forks came poking,

one word at a time, silently absorbing

and silently digesting.

This poem we sung was a masterpiece.

This poem we sung was the elixir of life.