Is Poetry Twilight

Why is poetry born? 

Does its womb in darkness churn?
Or is its river reason?

Where are its verses meant to reach
The heart in which a corner we crave

Or the home we left behind 
At the end of an old path of trust bereft.

Is poetry merry, singable, is it a song

Or is its verse only a whisper

Like the cry waves leave by their shore
In an ageless error of love.

When we write poetry

Are we answering or asking

Is poetry confluence of our humble sides

And with melody must it be sewn
Or is it the dissent of sore tides.

Able at performing within silent strides.

Is our poem a halt for someone's timeless wander

To hear which the wait has been suffered.

Are words of your poetry

Better guarantors 

At negotiating our differences

That stone walls cover.

I know that by poetry we undress

And cover the frayed flesh of our tattered soul.

Our poems are our window to the world

And the world's peek into the depths that we fall.

Where should we hide poetry

If it goes unheard

Why should we write poetry

If nothing it alters that it must

Burning, aflame

Consumed in fire and dust of hopes

Is poetry meant to die and be reborn
In paper or transcend boundaries that guns draw.

If it is meant to be the song of ages

Why poetry must be written by poets alone

Strange - poetry is immortal

When the hands that write it aren't

They call poetry abstract, figment, feetless walk

And the labour of a mind swimming among islands.
And to find a answer I yet must write another one

What do I know of poems and poetry

Or of their power and shelter

For I have only always crawled to poetry

To conceal the sky of my losses under its wings

To be able to go on, 
To breathe by my poem's shadowy side

To cry what I need and miss

To sing what I believe, 
I write those poems 

When truth and times force me 

To the twilight of my dreams