I borrowed the pen of Pablo Neruda,
and painted life in green
in trains of thoughts unseen.
I succumbed to the pain of Sylvia,
to understand the puzzle of despair;
stand grateful to Love beyond compare.
I tried to walk in the woods of Frost,
a tread in paths that are still unknown
to reap the seeds yet to be sown.
I sought the solace of Dickinson,
ethereal joy ‘midst the solitude–
whose silence was a face of rectitude.
I read them works–Longfellow’s, Whitman’s, Poe’s
and vowed, to be a drop of poetry in a world of prose.
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