a poem by Sushil Sundrayal

Whenever I prattle, I just forget the point.
So, while inscribing I try to locate the point.

Whatever I say it’s only the appreciation,
But on listening it, seems to be falsification.

Whatever I do, is nothing else but to think.
More than million times in a single blink.

Whomever I think, it’s solely about Him.
And to whom I’ve forgotten, is perhaps Zim.

Wherever I glance its only He (not you).
In sky, earth, flame and even in the dew.

Whatever I get, it seems present with a glow.
And my each present seems to be a blow.

Wherever I am enrolled, remain on the top.
Once was in ‘dear’, now no matter in the ‘flop’.

Whatever I preach, now seems to be abuse,
And whatever He bestows, is gift of the Muse.