• sagnik_sarma 36w

    A Picture to Live By

    It's dusk,
    But I'm not in a hurry,
    Slouched, a black mass,
    You meld into the horizon,
    I wonder if these evening chants
    Will absolve me like they did to you,
    Or will I be sent capes in dreams
    Only to be strangled by them.

    They say
    About poets with burnt tongues
    That their thirst is an excuse
    To swallow stories that will never be.
    Sandstorms thrive in deserted towns
    Lending ink to their ghastly memories,
    And in a wintry storm
    You were one of mine
    Though I repented,
    You still broke my shrine.

    There's a picture of the night sky
    Of dusty palms,
    Buzzing flies, and sleepy eyes,
    Of a fever dream,
    a nasty scolding, and tremors,
    My company is a bunch of muffled voices
    Except there's you, curious of my heart
    My pulse too strong, your nail fond of art.