Words Of November Night

"Hey! Would you read it? " Asked me to the reader

"Are your words as costly as silver 

to drench the thirst of mine and other?"

Of the train, I board, questioned the passenger.

"Well you are right, we are the authors far off sight

might not be as rich as Shakespeare, Henry used to write.

I guess mine shine dull into the eyes of the readers so bright 

to the eyes of the readers' so right."

Said the selfless me to the thirsty he.

"Oh! dear your words so mere,

one day will find a listener who will hear.

Don't worry brother, so what if that's not me?"

With these, he left his words audible to my ears,

as his station arrived at an aperture of another reader.

I was still on the same train

with the same book called, 'The Words Of Rain.'

From the same heart of the same soul

handed me the book they troll

to a reader so oblivious for the sun setting near

my blooded stream melted as sweat, just expecting her to discover.

Over my wounded words ran her eyes

produced the curve of the brows expressed in the feelings she did hide.

My little heart, hurt, moreover tries to console me

said, " that's a regret of her for not to understand thee."

Which I felt she might never

set the quality of words to which she marked as Joker.

My book laid next to me on an empty seat

stayed which had no reader to read.

Time grew older, the moon now shines brighter,

passengers did come and go, but there's one stood by for whose paired palms did gather.

A pair of suspicious eyes and an arrogant smile

tossed his eyes over the words of the book laid at the aisle.

I read him, the way he reads me,

and then comes the collector," Rudyard Jostle ?"  inquires he . 

I got my ticket stamped

and there he enters to the biography, I lamped.

At once, he points his sharp eyes to mine

his act unnoticed,  brings on his visage a judicious smile.

" Well, very rich words you create 

to a greater extent of fathoming poetry, I did inhale."

"Surprised to find an author  front  me."

said to he, the perplexed me.

"There's no fame to me since they don't read me,

my  words are mere mine, to very few may these shine,"

said me in dismay, whom I did hear to say

was a distributor of wonderful creations, and for me the winds o'May.

That November night, his smile made my hopes back  bright,

aided me with the words to be shared 

and his golden words " To lose, but never ever fear dear."

Now my words reach everyone I know and I don't.

They now understand me

as they read I appreciate he.

I thank that Train of November Night

of the words, you shall be reading might.