A Poet

Te thing is, I'm no longer a poet

Waiting for the bustlings and bucklings of brewed bright mornings

Waiting at the doorstep of thick thickety things that are finer and lighter than air

I'm a poet on no grand wait-list tugging between growing pains and growing pleasures

Plainly? I'm no poet

To tell you what happened will make me a poet

After all what is a poet without time.. 

Without time offering its velvet back to him so that he'd imprint his heavy sighs, and scribbles

To tell his tailor-made lies, dichotomies, heresies or his blue-sky truth

But I guess —( I say, almost like a shout in a void) —

I guess, I'm here because of the words of one the greatest Arab poet, Al-mutannabi:

“I give myself a second chance to hope, then I wait. 

“Life is too narrow without the space of hope.”

Waiting has never seen a better description

Brewed with hope for all bustling and buckling breath 

And I'm once again reminded that the fibres of Time tickles with serenades

And the coarseness of the world can't be turned to its prime

And fire swims in the sea of unyielding minds 

So I begin in the name of the most Kind

Abu A'ish MK Albani

19.11.2021

11.53 p.m.