My day, like any other day

World poetry day
is perhaps my day, many
verses, most of them
told ordinarily, they
fell on the leaves;
patient words
eager to be heard,
did they enchant the world,
I'd always wondered;
but who am I to think
of that, when all I could
do, in darkness or in light
was write, and only write,
shades of unseen hues
in black and white,
who am I to judge any
of them, good, bad, they
were my thoughts, my poems;
stories of angst, worries
ecstasies, pouring from
my heart, daisies, daffodils,
poppies came, went, and came
like an addictive game
adorning an unnoticed garden;
on this day, like any other day,
when all those written lines,
no longer mine, some fragrant,
some decorating branches,
of a large tree that sheltered nests,
invited the bees, and, nourished,
went wandering with wings,
chirping, dancing, flying,
falling, rising, reaching out in places,
I see the traces in rigid bondage,
a tragic sight of a curious page,
but strange that I have to read
them over and over again
to set them free.