Lore from the mountains


while I lie numb next to the
corridor of spring
where sings the cuckoo
whence the loving breeze slips past me
Melody of spring, a sweetness splendid
Here I lie
near the gates of morn
while sleeps my companion
faraway
behind the sun near horizon
I watch the blooming lilies,
their smile ,so intoxicating
…fragrant bunches of love in extravagance
Here I lie near the window of hope
within the bars of life
caged is the soul
in body
of survival…
I witness the mystic creations
the tranquil river knew my lore
that flowed beside your cottage
while mesmerized tall conifers
overlooked the minute gambles
near the mountain door .
Here I lie in fragments,
gathering bits to create a new mural
brushing colours picked
from nature to the
once dead existence.
©SoumyaV
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Lifeless


Dried , my ink with the dryness of my heart

bloodless have been my veins

thus the pen moves empty

scribbling lifeless words

meaningless thoughts

swiping away desires ,

eroding emotions

the heart stranded bruised and over bruised

with thousand wounds..

No, blood can’t be infused back

I run incessantly with blemishes

Life screams

soul weeps..

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The Invisible Dagger


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Tis the invisible dagger that slits and pierces
an indifferent song again dances
on the thumping beats of my heart
yet again, the wound stings
letting the searing tears reign the start
blisters, how many,
how doth they vanish … by any magic balm?
I swallow the flood of extremeness
in a moment I hide behind my stretched smile
how far, how long
the deep bruise prolongs
let me know O! my lord
…under this dark
with thy drops of twinkle
I hope and hope till the last
of an infinitesimal moment
whence the flower will be caressed and
not slit with the invisible dagger
of a morning , of a dawn
of an era,
while I live on.

“Tangles of Jealousy”


oh ! the tangles of jealousy,

where doth they drive one

into

the dark cave of hatred and false ecstasy…

how the heart like a chameleon turns

red ,sometimes bitter green…

Oh ! narrow minded alleys of such hearts

beware, thy happiness is momentary.. for

love in drops of divine

immaculate and selfless

is eternal and endless…

blossoms which on every perch is life

while moss forms on stagnant minds…

Try  ways

and acts

O! jealousy!

thy face will always be  decked

with superficial jewels

and a clear heart

will bejewel truth for serenity

©Soumya V

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She lives nowhere


She lives nowhere
 neither in her own cage
 nor in open air
 homeless, shelterless she moves…
 seeking solace
 would the tranquil blue provide
 her some rest
 will the traveling clouds quench her thirst ageless,
 in the crowd, she gets lost
 her voice diminishing to nothingness
 where ‘s she now
 where is her abode 
 in the limitless sky
 she searches for her unique dwell.
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The last lullaby


It was a rendezvous

a tryst with lost hidden moments

fancied through dreams and imaginations

become alive

as fingers on an vintage collection turn the pages

Few drops shed, innumerable smiles captured

the nostalgia of dusty coherence

reminded of old wiped tragedies

a cluster of flowers once bloomed

together

It’s autumn time now ,

dear friend

The florets sing the

last lullaby.

The pragmatic spirit


the pragmatic spirit
which failed to live as a free bird
pinioned to the ancillary pedestal with bondage,
a pit of darkened sphere
where like a dragon is a holocaust

in the feeble body,
a sunken heart,
fears swing of life
forgoing and abstract
stares at the time pendulum

under the lampshade orange ,
dawned a ray of wisdom
a veneration;
an assimilation of glitches
burns the scared pyre
illuminating the inner luminescence

Random rumination of a scribbling poet


Can I ever express?

Can I ever say?

murmurs the inner voice

The random ruminations

struggling details

endless musings

thoughts ceaseless

turbulent apprehensions

intense emotions

words falling way apart

when the ink of life flows like the Ganges….

 

the arteries suffocate

what hath the social environ done

strangling wishes in the cage

flutters the bird a last time

before she forgets her own desire

how then would the heart speak

after being buried in soil nine feet deep

why then the soul screams

in silence when neither the world hears nor

peeps

Is it the solitude that echoes

and relishes the scathing pain

the lump in choked throat

or the blood of a slit vein…

the smile of the sad heart

or a laugh lame

how would the heart start

singing its own tale?

nay, it doesn’t glorify

nor intend to sermon

Tis the lonesome want of a

scribbling poet

Ya! listen comrade

lend a moment ,close your eyes

hear my soul’s tale

as drenches the parched heart

in desirous rain!