Poems don’t sell


vikas chandra

Abridged its form, but not its charm, cherished beyond many a realm
A bard’s qualm, why his gems are traded free, in the bazaar of rhyme
For the proser thinks, it ends before it begins, how it fails to overwhelm
Prose by an inch, that trades in dollars, alas, poor rhyme, not worth a dime

No leisure of space, not a crowded place, its beauty, in its fabulous frugality
Every tiny space counts, every letter, comma, word and phrase counts
Poesy is a prose condensed, prose a poesy magnified, artistic duality
But by all holistic accounts, what poesy recounts, why prose discounts

A juggler’s binding job sublime, to stir magic and mystique in a rhyme
How it drains the nerves, and scrapes the heart, of a searching soul
A thought awaits or dies until rhymed, while Prose never lives on borrowed time
Hangs by rhythm, fickle fate of a rhyme…

View original post 106 more words

2 comments

Submit a comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s