The Poet Poem by Agatha Eliza

In this wheel of life,
our numbered days
are spun like brittle threads
by diligent hands-
We are clusters of emotions,
sprouts of thoughts
and shards of incomplete actions
buds of delicate white flowers
ardent spirits inhabiting
a carcass of skin and bones
carrying the flame
in our heart's lantern while
our eyes are set for marvels
which our praying,
yet sometimes hesitant lips
can't always find
the words to give birth
to the infinite
on a white piece of paper..


Walking alone down
a corridor of broken mirrors,
the poet, in his tattered robe
hears the solemn whispers
coming from beyond-
fully awake, but
at the same time dreaming
finding beauty in everything
even in the darkest corners,
where the icy flowers
of sheer oblivion
are plucked
by the restless
and the long shadow of love
barely pushes through
with its faint
yellowish beam of light, but
this ancestral journey we call 'Life'
ends when the thread is cut...