Feverish

I'm  a writer and I'm a poet and as in the tenure of struggle
I carefully lift my pen again
Carefully not to get ashamed in my own eyes
As beauty lies in the eyes of beholder and silence that's the rule I abide by
My words don't rhyme anymore no message to convey as no transcript to be written and read again and again
My works won't be immortal as my body has turned has turned weak and void
Impringment of irony has refused to clot... My poetry now just gushes in wild
Old wounds have surfaced again like the lethal submarine hidden in covert
Like that little submarine which just wants to be visible
I the broken reader on a single command ready to be slain
Back to my genre of abstract... Please forgive me my dream
Even in fiction... I failed to create
Guess it's time for departure.. Slowly my ink tends to fade away
A coupe of seclusions engulfing all I had and all i'll ever have
No struggle no concussion just bending and praying...
Dear hope, disappointment is all that you gave

The toughest part for a writer -
How you end the life you spread.. Seeing turning into a parasite
Atleast a chaos that you create
Pushing on the verge of destruction... The road you have travelled long and ahead

Waiting for that pale face in the moonlight
Searching my runaway bride in silence
Your absence is a chill... Freezing me into an unspoken silence of lost randomness

By- Kshitij Sinha
3/5/2018

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