Progression

It stands as focused as a reed,
Fixed upon a point, a pain.
Revolving round repeated creed:
"I wish, I miss"-- a constant bane.

Then gradually, as voice gets clear,
Thought reaches out to fast embrace
More poetries, in life appear,
As worlds combine to find a place.

And this becomes the poet's quest,
To share and see the tales around.
Through written word to stay abreast
Of stars and skies and tree and ground.