• simran2315 5w

    /To Smudged Hands & Ink/

    As my orbs scan your syllables,
    my mind halts its chores midway
    to speculate your verbiage.
    I feel your fingertips
    that once ran on this leaf,
    caressing my eyelids
    through time and space.
    We recite the same tongue
    yours but is, a smouldering fire.
    It chars, sometimes,
    and at other times, it illumes.

    Some verses of yours stir
    the storm at the back of my head.
    My skull oscillates
    like a pendulum,
    up and down,
    resonating with your iambic pentameters.
    Sometimes I fall
    for the configuration of atoms
    in your poem,
    and caress your words
    to find the open end of the tape
    to unmask what lies beneath.
    With a hand lens, I scour
    the intimate dots of l-o-v-e
    and I stand on my heels,
    peeking for how
    you simmer such delicacies.

    And maybe the mind does this gimmick,
    to spare the heart
    from getting anguished by your ink.
    To prevent it from falling
    into the chasms of the nostalgia
    of the unknown.

    And sometimes my heart yanks free
    the grasp of my brain
    and comes sprinting
    towards your phrases,
    stilling at the vista
    of the grandeur of your letters.

    It's like love at the first sight,
    and the pupils dilate
    abducting every cursive of your similes,
    gasping in your oxymorons,
    the spurt of that adrenaline inside
    appraising those alliterations,
    making me gape

    It bleeds and laments
    over the beauty and melancholy
    of the smidgens of your pen.
    and so the news dispels
    to the doors of my deeper insides.

    My soul glues its ears to the walls
    to catch the rhapsody
    of your syllable or two.
    It's a brisk highjack of my remains,
    and my soul holds there
    until the ambrosia from your ink
    drips upon it,
    soaking it all,
    easing the perpetual handcuffs.

    Your intriguing words
    rain daggers over my drenched self
    gashing it into fractions
    each sliver free-falling
    into voids of tangibility,
    finally brandishing
    to the thorns of your painted roses.

    I love it how you don't have an iota
    of me, making out with your words...
    Of how my neurons blink
    in the fervour
    to recapitulate the hues of the sky
    from your eyes.
    Of how you bring my heart
    in the core of the battlefield,
    to your words
    to you.

    That's what your poetry does to me...
    Forget the butterflies,
    your words make the niches of my gut
    turn auburn into frost
    in a blink of an eye.

    Aren't your words
    but formless, disembodied souls
    befriending mine?
    Sometimes taking my hand,
    sometimes kneeling beside,
    sometimes sucking the air from me,
    sometimes blowing in life.


    'If a poem hasn't ripped apart your soul, you haven't experienced poetry.'
    -Edgar Allan Poe��

    A note of gratitude to all the known and unknown words that have touched my soul so far.❤️
    You changed my winds of thought in ways I could never imagine.����❤️

    #melancholyc @writersbay @writersnetwork @mirakee #writersnetwork @readwriteunite

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