The unfortunate cadaver is cut open
To look for the reason to help the law or the Profession.

The heart is pinched, pulled and severed,
But the feeling is left untouched.

The brain is sliced and observed under
The microscope
But cherished emotions are unnoticed.

The lung is brutally ripped open
And looked into,
But the breath of life it nurtured
is unfelt.

The medical examination is over.
The body is ready to go.
‘Dust to dust’ so they say.

Strangely a poet is like an ‘autopsy doctor’.

His emotion, his feeling
And the very sprit of life
Lingers in his heart, in his brain
And in the breath of his soul.

It is given birth, reared
And cherished!
Not just once,
Again and again and every second of
His very being.

As long as that eruption of feeling remains in his mind,
It is a live volcano.
Every breath of his soul enlivens it.
Every sprout of his emotion chisels its shape.
Every gust of his feeling adds maturity.

A poet understands himself by understanding it.

He rips open the soul
And tries to expose the innerself
While writing a poem.

The moment the feeling is squeezed
And frozen,
It ceases to be dynamic
And ever – perfecting
[Perfecting itself and the poet too]

That very moment,
It is imprisoned in the dark dungeons
Of letters and lines.
It is fettered by the rules of expression.

A poet is understood all through
This frozen expression.

The body is ready to go.
Fortunately this time, I am there to say,
“Dust to eternity.”

Autopsy completed.
The result of the examination is
THIS POEM