Unstuck

But then again, who am I to feel pity

For that smudge of grey where wit ceases to be witty.

Ah! That marvelous smudge of grey!

That rhyme of blue and canto of yellow.

Dark! Like the song of morbid lark.

Agonizing and tantalizing taste of mellow.

He sculpts words and brews emotions.

I hereby share my intimidation and confusions

Of his untimely motions

I beg your pardon, a bad habit of mine.

I forgot to introduce myself.

I am a mere word that flows in a line.

Some people simply call me “time”.

Yes, some people. Not all. At least not him.

Neither he shares my flow nor does he sail in my river.

His tumultuous flow makes his sails quiver.

What sorcery might have conjured his creation?

 Like a painting that lacks translation.

Colors, he sings and flavors he writes.

Such is his darkness, flickering in lights.

And such is his art!

He is art!

He is a metaphor of himself.

Like a creation for sake of itself.

Watch his heart as it beats in a rhyme.

This poet is unstuck in time.

And now I shall unveil this obscure hymn.

The truth is that I am unstuck in him.

- Salil Bhat

*~Time's note: Time is unstuck in poet. Not the other way around.~*