Like a puff of cigarette, like a sip of wine;
They rise high, so high inside.
Not one, not two, not even million can serve my appetite.
Words...hard to find,
Words...deep they touch.
Words...say few to me,
Words...convey so much.
Resting inside the quill with ink;
Some white and some are dark.
My eyes always lit up;
When I shower them on your body parts.
Orphan they feel, so read them loud.
Few make you cry, few make you proud.
Stubborn they are, will try to stay close.
Be it in a poem or in a prose.
A rainbow of alphabets,
A miracle bestowed by literature.
My spirits fly like an angel,
When I write 'words' on paper.