He gazed,he gazed and he gazed.
In search of capturing words
Only to find none
The sabre,they say,is part of the swordman
The anvil makes the blacksmith
And the words make the wordsmith
How come he wanes on a such poetic night?
For beauty is an allurer and twister of the soul
Sometimes, she exhumes poesies from the deepest grave
And smears them unto hearts
Sometimes,she makes popinjays dumb
The eater becomes eatable
Beauty inspires,it also fades
Beauty is craved and it’s also wasted