Verse

 I was supposed to muse over the alphabet

Counter set to one month. 

What all reasons I have to shun it -

Not one, not two - but a million.

The daily grind, I say comes in way - 

The must dos, the mundanes, the many digresses

It's been over a year I'd abandoned this space

While in abandon I wile away the limited, numbered days.

Hobby this is, I say to myself. Now I write for a reason.

Treason this is, to keep away, for getting it out -

Helps. It just helps.

With what? With regulation, moderation, revelation and another tion I cannot think of 

From the top of my head.

But down there, at the Bottom of my heart, I know, This is where I belong.

Getting em out - while letting them loose

To fly across the blues - the ones above and the ones inside alike!

Now does the wing span cover miles like a metal bird does

Or just inches in splash of color, and delicate as petals 

Matters not - size, shape and make 

As long the flight it takes!