A being in haze.��

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  • adamantquill 3h

    A human in woman's frame.

    I shall craft a poetic heritage
    for a human in woman's frame.
    The world reflects the law of
    her restrained strength
    or perhaps the world imposes
    it in the core of her mind since birth.
    A body that was created to
    weave a new life within, and
    you naive minded belittle that power.

    I shall craft a poetic heritage
    for a human in woman's frame.
    She was always a warrior
    without any armour, you hid her
    behind the curtains and jewels.
    You feared that brave tales and sagas
    would be written solely on her,
    unsung songs will be sung for her
    and she shall be crowned victorious.

    I shall craft a poetic heritage
    for a human in woman's frame.
    She is named the frail counterpart
    of this disdained lot of species.
    You know she never fears
    blood for she is the victim of
    bloody ritual every month for
    the purpose of suturing and
    nurturing a soul she will hold
    within besides her own.

    I shall craft a poetic heritage
    for a human in woman's frame.
    She, who wishes to compete
    and run on a path said to be made
    by the patriarchy and it's dominance.
    She prays for the day to come
    when she will be allowed to stand
    on the same pedestal given her
    equal efforts and hardwork.

    I shall craft a poetic heritage
    for a human in woman's frame.
    One who cherishes the nightfall
    but fears the empty streets,
    one who wishes to wander the
    world carefree, but that is a
    far fetched dream for her, a dream.
    One who wants to be dauntless
    but insecurities creep under her skin.

    I shall craft a poetic heritage
    for a human in woman's frame.
    But will you read it without
    judgements veiling your eyes,
    without stereotypes that were
    fed to you since time immemorial?
    I shall craft a poetic heritage
    for a human in woman's frame
    whose existence kept the world
    moving in its pace this long.

  • adamantquill 1d

    Wishes were made on
    first sight of shooting star
    for the love to sail until
    it reaches the shore of eternity,
    vows were taken beneath the skies
    of walking side by side as always.

    Now, I am sitting on the cold floor
    trying to mend broken promises,
    solving the puzzle of torn letters
    to read the untold lies in between lines,
    words in letter are in haze from the
    tears that dropped and dropped,
    until it drooped and dried away.

    I once thought, I would master
    the poetry of love because of you.
    Sigh! I was meant to be skilled
    in heartbreak and lonesome verses.
    Words refuse to make amends with
    the love that is lost and long gone,
    leaving no signs of arrival again.

    When I was with you, I secretly wrote
    poems for you in the name of moon.
    I guess, the poems now truly belong to
    the moon because your presence has
    withered completely, my poems defy you.
    I left the city of love with a promise to
    never return again and walk the same street.

    I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

    #end #writersnetwork

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    My unrhymed sonnet.

    I once weaved love on pedestal of eternity
    romanticizing the idea of a whilend love
    rowing through oceans of amaranthine.
    Who knew, a wrecked boat never make it
    till the end giving birth to disdained verses.
    I dreamt of us under the moonlit night
    humming melodies of a favourite song,
    but oh it is a new moon, a moonless night.
    I wished to write love in muses of forever
    but you see I couldn't rhyme a single phrase,
    they remain stripped off of their symphony.
    My unrhymed sonnet is nearing the end
    and memories of our lost love gushing within.
    I thought that love would last forever:I was wrong.

  • adamantquill 2d

    They may carry my untold poetries.

    When flowers bloom at dawn
    over the graveyard of my poems
    that died drowning in cataclysm
    of wretched tears last night,
    I shall eulogize over the petals
    whose redolence may carry my
    grievance apology for my poems.

    When flowers bloom in muddy puddle
    adorning iridescent tints on the land,
    a poet may pluck it's orenda and
    sow in poetries that belong at the
    melancholic barren valley with
    no sunshine shone and cold waves
    embracing the dormant buds.

    When flowers bloom from the
    crevices of my broken soul
    chasing away the dead odour,
    I shall cry a bit more to water
    the new blossoms within me
    and a bit more to lament over the
    dead pieces of my healing soul.

    "When flowers bloom over my dead carcass someday, just let them grow and their fragrance may carry my tales from my untold poetries with the wind to you"

  • adamantquill 3d

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    Standing at the edge of night
    I gulp down serenity and vagueness,
    unfathomable verses spill down
    the battle wounds from the day.

    I sometimes find
    calmness in my loneliness and
    forlorness in beguile friendliness.
    Nightertale unfurls the hidden tales.

    I manage to veil my ramshackle pieces
    under the darkness of nightfall and
    aid the brokenness shone under moon
    with a poetry for my own self.

    All my happy poems are
    neither a fallacy nor a whole truth,
    for they are the memoirs of happiness
    preserved in time capsule shoveled within.

    Midnights are horribly quiescent,
    sometimes they bring out inner demons and
    sometimes harbour dulcet whispering symphony
    And sometimes just inexplicable vague emotions.
    #mondo #writersnetwork

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    How the midnight blue tasted?

    It tasted like serenity mixed in aloofness sprinkled under stars, a single sip of calm night and ruffled solitary emotions.

  • adamantquill 1w

    Midnight hymn.

    Today, the seaside breeze
    was a little less kind to me
    and threw me on the lap of sea.
    Sunset was drowning, so was I
    in tears beguiled as seawater.

    The fallacy of autumn led me
    to write wretched poetries on
    spring, it bloomed on my wounds.
    My scars tell tales of battleground
    that turned into cherry blossoms.

    I wear pieces of stars in
    orbs of my eyes in darkness
    of the ceiling over my head.
    Midnight hymns sung by night
    resonate the morosis heart.

  • adamantquill 2w

    Joyous phases; rueful days.

    I love the ink that spills giving
    birth to quintessential abstracts
    beneath the abstruse lines,
    strolling the pages, weaving
    their own verses and I am
    a reader of their dinky tales.

    I hate the hapless days of drought
    in my ink pot and tattered quill,
    empty pages go on hunger strike
    and I sit in corner tracing spirals
    over my palm to find the way out
    of the labyrinth that trapped me.

    I love those midnight journeys
    to my imaginative land where
    I rest my soul at the edge of sky
    and savour grays from the clouds,
    munch the lachrymose from within
    to fly wingless in dreams of my dream.

    I hate the days when stars refuse
    to knock my windowpane and
    I am hesitatingly accompanied by
    tear soaked pillow and lurking demons
    in my room, they linger in my bones
    and I sit there planning a retaliation.

  • adamantquill 2w

    To the one reading.

    Thank you for choosing this as POD ��
    Though it's nothing much special I wrote.
    Thank you everyone who's heartily appreciating, just so you know you matter ��
    #kwansaba #writersnetwork


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    Your existence matters.

    I shall adulate you for being present
    on the land where virtue fights the
    evil till death, where sun shines on
    day and moon calms the night, where
    flower blooms in the midst of mud.
    I shall write you a warm praise
    for being the only one in billions.

  • adamantquill 2w

    �������� ���� ��������

    Lorn phrases on
    lonely night seeks
    lambent love in you.

    Oh we met
    on blossoming days
    of spring blooming love.

    Sitting on park bench
    staring at the
    sweven moon of love.

    Tinge of love on
    tapestry of my poems
    radiate lights I lost.

    Longingness of you
    lures me to write
    letters hidden in poems.

    Oozing wounds
    over my heart heals
    on seeing your smile.

    Verdant love and
    vows over redamancy,
    visit me in my poems someday.

    Effulgent muses and
    euphony whispers of love,
    epiphany embrace me like you.

    Love poetries are not my forte��
    #katuata #writersnetwork

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    ʟᴏꜱᴛ ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ

    I asked the skies to vouch
    for our love, for our vows.

  • adamantquill 2w

    I don't need you to share my sorrows.

    Perhaps, falling and breaking
    wouldn't hurt much if we were
    like a parched autumn leaf
    or a withering petal of an
    accolading flora falling like
    the nature's muse with the wind.
    But we are stuck in human frame and
    our falls are nothing but painful aches.

    If I gift you a broken mirror
    and ask you to fall in love with
    your own distorted reflection
    for the rest of your life, will you?
    You lost your brilliant sheen upon
    shattering, but oh dear even the broken
    shards of glass shine like diamonds
    under the sun at that lorn road.
    Turn towards the daylight to find it.

    I was asked if I am to remember only
    one moment from this rushing life,
    which one would it be?
    Maybe, this moment right here as
    I am weaving certain apropos verses.
    But not necessarily every exact moment
    will be pleasant memory of all because
    I chose to walk a road that randomly
    grow thorns underneath my bare feet.

    I bury the perished pieces of my
    happiness in the arcane of poetries,
    eulogizing them on evanescent pages
    to surmount the insurmountable losses
    while writing coronation songs for
    the arrival of newly bloomed spring.
    Spring carries bliss in its womb
    so I should delicately caress her.
    ||It's my secret to heal, shhh||

    No, I don't need you to share my sorrows,
    I have ample words for that in my archive.
    I just need you to share my happiness.
    Put on some warm clothes, we will
    visit the north in my poems,
    wintrous wind will freeze your heart
    but the igloo I made is warm.
    I imbibe the bitter ink in wine glass
    and write poetries on floor, it is all
    so tepid, so warm and so cold

  • adamantquill 2w

    As a child, I saw the sun kiss
    goodbye to the sky as it
    melted in the aurora and
    the little stars start appearing
    as they peek through that
    boundless space in sparkles.

    I would wish for a day to come
    when sun will wait until moon
    shines bright and they both
    exchange greetings and giggle
    with me. The day never came.
    I wondered if they despised
    each other's presence.

    And I learnt about the moon
    stealing lambent light of the sun.
    Perhaps, since then the hatred grew,
    for the light belonged to the sun
    and moon chose to shine underneath
    yet collecting adulation from the people.
    Sun was blamed for being scorching burn.

    Since then I have been a
    solisequious poem for the sun.
    I chose this closest star to be
    my guide for coming back.
    I delve evenfall twilight, merging
    in nightly affairs of my poetry.
    I elide the moon's luminescence
    to write accolades of mighty sun.
    #myth #writersnetwork

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    Sunsets are diving hope.

    To me,
    sunsets are diving hope in dusk
    with a promise behold by the sun
    to come visit me the next day
    with a new hope wrapped in dawn.
    Some sunset derides my soul that
    reaches the edge of a cliff to give up,
    some pats my back for still holding on.