A sting of writing a poem,
A desire to write a rhyme;
Has struck me now
But not sure,
Where to start and how.
Poem is nothing but a play of words,
Pick one word from here and another from there,
And put them in order like you desire;
But what to write now?
Has become the 'Question of the day' somehow.
I smile as I write,
Why this smile, what for?
I am not sure;
Yet I smile,
And it gets wider;
Whether I am bitten by a Silly Spider.
This state of *unsurety* has consumed me highly,
It has made me curious lightly;
Do I always need a title to write?
I think as I do nail-bite,
Is it always so important to hold a kite?
Why not holding just the thread?
And letting it go the way it said;
Why to coerce it to fly with the kite?
This makes some sense,
As I gain some quaint intelligence.
But there is this strange relation,
Between Mr. Thread and Mrs. Kite equation;
Mrs. Kite says, "Let me fly",
But Mr. Thread is petulant,
He says, "Don't fly. Just lie"
Mrs. Kite gets angry,
She stares him dryly;
Mr. Thread knows the game,
As he approaches,
Mrs. Kite is ready for the tame.
Mr. Thread pats his counterpart,
As he holds her with a softer heart;
He ties himself with her,
And this way...
They strike the balance of nature.
Now I am surprised,
How the poem is stitched,
But I am happy,
With a redolent note...
I wish you a Good Night.