He

He can't  be bound to paper,
By words, dwarfed and queer, 
He is freedom, in the sky written,
By him the Sun, is smitten.
He is the slayer of the dark,
His words,the song of the lark.
His thoughts,pearls,in the oysters sleep,
Fetched from the oceans deep.
His heart, a throbbing piece of steel,
Cast in grief,beaten on life's anvil.
He's a Goliath,but a David to his demons,
For,he can't help ignoring,his Angels' sermons.
He's flawed, afflicted by many an affliction,
He is the first cousin of imperfection.
By his emotions, he is often flayed,
With love and lust, his senses equally swayed.
He is humane, being human is his religion,
His humanity rescues  him from abyss stygian. 
The soul in him that he harbours,
A pristine lily, that Mother Nature nurtures.
A mystery - unravelling, he defies,
A wonder personified, treading the universe,
A poet's muse he is, a never ending verse.
                                                            Chandni.