with wings like
gossamer flappers,
of
singed moths
in raven
nights
wet in the
lingering sweat
of the
long lost
daylight.
my muse
sulks
in dark corners
of grey matter
convolutions.
as the rancid moonlight
tastes like stale curd
on
tongue of imagination-
in
hibernation,
and stars are like
peering geriatric eyes
of a
grumpy guard
glaring
at
rustling trees
impinging--
on his
stolen
hours of
slumber.
with sleep refusing to be
lured
while insomnia haunts,
as an
unwanted house-guest-
reclining shamelessly
on my
couch--
etched
in wrinkles.
the books arranged
covetingly over now
dusty shelves,
seem
insipid, lack-luster-
and thoughts churn within
as the soul's tornado,
yearning
gushing
like
frenzied wind-
banging on rusty hinged
doors and windows,
and the
heart craves
for
wings of Hermes,
to soar
the skies
of
un-scaled contemplation,
spin
mystique,
and
unravel mysteries within,
erasing
footprints of vacuous
nothingness,
threatening to engulf life's
alleys...
Unspoken Dialect…
Words are caught within
sentiment clogged throats refusing
to find expression in voiced lucidity and
are heard as mere moan or murmur—
ambiguous expressions left un-deciphered,
translated in shimmering fluidity of gazes
or escaping as multifaceted sighs.
They are never writ in any language--
a dialect alien to habit of script
that finds expression in the racing of pulse,
dilation of pupils and
butterfly wing flutters in the breast--
a pause in time’s momentum
in abeyance on the threshold of
silence and the spoken.
The parlance of gestures,
wherein the tremor of
mute hands find
a meaning and an
expression,
twitching lips and a
quiet blink
garner interpretation,
within silhouettes of
the obscure
that unsaid is
heard,
like the whisper of a
falling feather
gathers meaning from
singing breeze.
This language is a
tapestry of unspoken words
lingering on the
horizon of surrealism,
the mendicancy of voice
resulting in
failed interpretation by veteran linguists
their diaphanous realms invisible beneath
the eagle gaze of
microscopic vision,
like the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze
and echo of departing footsteps
lost in the catacombs of lost memory,
that half-forgotten symphony
that itches to burst forth
from lips of amnesia—it
is a parable
that is like shades of
crepuscule
muted yet vocal,
obscure yet lucid…
Dr. Smita Anand Sriwastav is an M.B.B.S. doctor with a passion
for poetry and literature, has always expressed my innermost thoughts and
sentiments through the medium of poetry, uses nature as the most inspiring force
in molding writings, has published two books and several poems in journals like
the Rusty Nail and Contemporary Literary Review India and one of poem was
published in a book called ‘Inspired by Tagore’published by Sampad and British
Council.
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