I wrote this poem in tribute to all those unknown poets who lived all their life in anticipation of elusive glory and recognition. Poets, who were the proper priests of poetry, yet, could not get their due owing to lack of exposure. In a world where publicity makes the undeserving famous, my unsuspecting mind took offence to the practice of neglecting the gifted ones, and so was this written as a homage to all those "UNKNOWN POETS" who died an unknown death.
This post is  in continuation to the collections from my boy-hood diaries, and this poem one out of the numerous 'literarily vacuous' creations that I had written back then ( though my friends here tell me otherwise ).
 

THE LAST POEM

That morning brought no joy to him
As did some days back
His face turned so dull and dim
While dusting his book-rack.

It did inflict immense pain
To go through in a flash
Photos of his kinship chain
Past vigor and panache.

Life was like a palindrome
Disgusted with all things.
Of rigid faith – An epitome
Succor, it did bring.

Lost belief in men and all
Counting backwards time.
A dying candle, late and small
Delighted him sublime.

With zest to make that final one
A masterpiece by far.
A poetry of compassion
Unexplored caliber.

Never short of touching rhyme
Alas, it was the test.
Grand finale –was this with time
His eyes would close for rest.

He wrote and thought till its end
What lovely words he chose:
“A Yellow Rose”- to it he named
With lasting lines to close.

Now asleep, a poet proud
He felt he had no life.
From his unforgiving shroud
His last poem survives.


NOT ONE OF MY BETTER ONES, I KNOW.