There lives a poet in each soul, In those who think. Tank of it deluge, And finds its path on its own, It may take the form of words, Or sufferings, Or even tears. Each of which strings together, Takes the shape of a festoon. Though not appealing, It finds its place, Around the neck, round the clock. Stays with those who hold it, And leaves those, with guts. Of them all, words are the deadliest, For it reaches all, For it reaches the one with heart, And makes them encounter that path, For a minuscule part of their life. And in some, it takes the form of a wave, For which it hits the shore, every now and then. Forcing them to join the sea, The sea of thoughts; Offering a peg of suffering, As if it is taken from a brook. They may swim back to the shore, As they won’t find it drowsy nor tasty. Life, it’s neither drowsy nor tasty, And reality, it’s not alluring. Huh, It’s saltier than the peg offered, at the shelf. One who managed to devour it, Presents the best of the poems, and becomes the best of the poets.