The Melodrama of Election

The Drama enfolds.

The actors appear for their best performances

(Not literally though)

Yet they say they are the best.

Say? They proclaim it aloud.

The game of mudslinging they indulge in.

And they are good at it.

And only thing they are good at.

Accusations fly, the air is thick and hot.

None to be left behind.

It’s the Kumbh of democracy.

All want a dip in the confluence of power.

But the dilemma shall prevail.

For the good words veil the intent.

No touchstone could revel

The good from bad.

Yet The We would choose.

And bundle the bouquet of thorns

And gift it our own selves.

And easy will sit the head that bears the crown.
Image

Poet of fit and start?

Streak of creativity strikes,

A rare muse crosses my path,

Yet fail to ignite that fire,

The rusted pen hardly writes,

Scarce words the hardly express,

Mind conjures faded images,

That holds not long,

River of thought runs through the desert,

The drought is long,

Could the famine of ideas end?

Will the barren mind bear the frit?

Scorched and parched the heart remains,

Thirsting for the downpour,

Denied the nectar that configures,

Sweetness, scent that bees seek,

The thrust that impregnates,

Plants the germ,

That when grows fulfills the life.