PoeTRY

That forgotten art. 
That love letter to yourself. 
That ode to a bird. 
That note to a stranger, who once upon a time wasn't.

Those scribbles on paper napkins hurriedly written with a Reynolds ball pen.
Those remains of your innermost pieces churned, squashed, and ground to finer pieces.
Those four verses of Haiku and two lines for a sonnet. They, who yearn to come alive but lie unread between the last two pages of a gifted, unopened book.

That purpose seeking moksha.
That which remains unruined among ruins.
That which fire can't burn.
That which words can touch.

Go. Pick another word.
And, come with me.