O Muse, thou art the master of all simile and all metaphor,
Thou the champion of grand personification,
Thou the father of prosody: metres of every strength.
And I’m only an old poet right now.

Tarry! And let me collect t’is all in you,
For t’is the – NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN – is.
Teach me, how to don the poesy by the attire of simile?
T’is the precious jewel of all magnificent composers.

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How to put the mantle of metaphor on the lines of
Light verses, sans any compass of obstruction?
Manifest route and assuage t’is flicker ‘f fabric
Lumination, by the sparkling illumination of true lore.


Things are not lively, for to make them beyond
What in routine precept animate is, then display;
Aid me the natural technique of personification.

The genres are the fain endowments of grand poets
Through which they embellish their utopias’.
Many noble artisans of ancient past, have had
Chiselled the gigantic châteaux of aristocracy.

Some have passed the adjectives to miracles,
To gain the handle of an unrequited love.
The genres are the elemental repertoires of muses.

O Lord, then let me be one such poète,
To construct my own la-la land, gift me t’is dowry
Today, as a father to her pampered daughter
Load with the gifts, on the day of her marriage.

A Walk With The Shadows

For if the dowry is profane, then let me default the book
Of sanctity today: fall into the hive of an original sin.
Here, I do implore you as thy mild servant,
Who at times did derelict from his authority.

Now, here I do pledge under supreme solemnity!
To render my authority complete with utmost devotion.

O Lord, stamp the affidavit and sanction today
The dowry of poets in my favour: and me an organic poet.
So, the rendezvous with my in-laws shall be magnetic.
Boon is not innate but given by you to whom thou dwelleth.

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