As it outbreathed the same yellow light,
The street light purposely hid a smile,
I watched it once, I watched it again,
Smiling it was stuck, crying I walked a mile.
Month: May 2014
“dilemma”
I am struggling with the dire desire to procrastinate the imperative and sit down to feel the time kissing my being and bidding goodbye in the form of this breeze awakening the night.
“the first letter Prose”
‘t was a time of dreams,
of a journey yet to start.
Riveted I would have been
if you didn’t know the art
together we felt a feeling unnamed,
ugh! the clock did its job again. 😦
“its yet the same”
Outside it was the same sight
Yellow light at a distance, infinite
Gazing as I sat tranced
Inbreathing an uncanny delight
Euphoric was the silence,
Quiet was the night,
And the skies proudly recounted
Tales of some morning exploits.
Shekhar Suman
“The first letter story”
the distant, dull, the dreamy star,
of all the orbs in the sky so far,
plight it had–of the strangest kind,
reaping the foils of its curious mind
alone it was amidst the crowd,
gales of time whilst thundering loud,
youth was to come, its youth is to fade,
abashed of its shine, its fancy charade…
.
.
.
yet incomplete 😦
Shekhar Suman
To — —
Not long ago, the writer of these lines,
in the mad pride of intellectuality,
maintained “the power of brain”- denied that ever
a thought arose within the human brain
that can’t be wiped away by the gales of time.
And now, as if in mockery of that boast,
a picture, painted with blurry brushstrokes,
much alike the façade of Aphrodite,
bathing in the moonlight fall of silver sparkle,
and dancing to the hymns of angels,
have exhumed a fire lost in squalls of,
distance and clocks and unvoiced passion .
Resurrected the yearn to burn in the flames
of Proclivity to glance at the seraphic vista.
Flared and charred I feel myself ashen,
and shivering. My pen falls from stiff fingers,
and I stand at the fringe of the abyss,
with you at the bottom, and the sides
and at the start of the end and,
at the end of the start, it’s you all around
O’ I wish, somehow, I drowned.
Shekhar Suman
(the first three lines are taken from the poem of Edgar Allen Poe with the same title)
feeling Canvas 