A Poem Of The Passing Age Poem by Aniruddha Pathak

I looked up a poem of passing age,
And held it under powerful light
To sense its true essence, modern image,
All I saw, a colourful kite.

I read aloud to catch its time,
Tried, feel poetry from pompous prose,
Searching fine verse found verbose chime,
To look what in its deep within flows,

Struggled to spot an opening,
Put a sniffing dog in its tracks,
Pursuing whilst my own probing,
We both lost way and called it packs.

Hired owls of finest dark vision
Its Byzantine chambers to search,
Aborting this thankless mission,
They returned tired, lost of own perch.

I engaged then decoders of repute
To find if some words sang like birds,
Was told, when pure tune's played on flute,
Futile is it focusing on words.

Defeated, feeling so grim,
I slept; wise sense rose like cream:
What is not your cup of tea,
O best ‘tis to leave as be.
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Tongue-in-cheek | 06.04.04 |