Some days I'm just a wayfarer like the barefoot waves that never recede back to the shores, as if some mariner drowned whole boat from Coleridge's ancient poesy leaving behind an incomplete story. My mind is the blank page of an open sky, where I pour words without being judged of its faded glory.
Some days I'm not just a human, but a free versed poetry etched on the walls of Cedar trees, shedding aureate leaves one by one each passing month, maybe one day I'll leave behind a species of my own existence till then I'll aim to embed life inside each passing season.
Some days I'm not just a shadow, but a morning sun that you fail to see rising and radiating at a chilly winter dawn, yet you sneer how I hold up the world with luminosity. Some days I'm a caramel butterfly in front of your vision far away from your hands, or an unfinished and unnamed painting that Gogh never made, maybe I couldn't relate to any.
Some days I may not be what I look, maybe I'm a vagabond seeking company in solitude, but I do become the back of the womb bearer of my flesh and I do become the smile of a man who plucks his endeavour to bloom my harvest. Oh! I forgot he only exists in sylvan frames and oscillating beats, but I do shield the pellucid space he exists within from the dust that tries to settle in. ~Purva
#place sorry :) This poem refers to me, my mom and my dad.
I wonder what it feels like to walk on the other side of silver coin, to place your feeble feet in someone else's shoe or to discover the back of drooping mountains right from the bottom where sun-sets.
Would it make any difference? The other side, the azure lake, the waking up of moon and the never ending pain. Or will everything be similar? The falling of snow, the swallows of sun, the mourning of sea and the hibernation of hope.
And I realise that some moments were like the river here today and gone tomorrow, but the part of everything that my eyes have preserved has flowed like the winds into the sea of words and time, running into poetic furrows.
And I keep wondering what it feels like to walk on the other side of silver coin, to place my feeble feet in someone else's shoe and to discern what a poem wants to bloom into and a poet is enduring through. ~Purva