When the sun falls in another tangerine glass and moon bestow ivory to the sky, I wonder how many existences and mortal souls has poetry kept alive and bonafide.
Do words flow like winds and blow life to moribund? Or do they keep giving birth to lines that bloom into a poetry, whose ending is yet to grow but carry spirits that were left to be rotten.
Are words enough to shelter fading hearts into poems rather than burying them in graveyards? Or are they a mere voice of broken hut mourning for the lost wave of hope that curled across the resting sea last time, when grief was spilled from the pen of a bard.
When the sun settles back to the margin of blue sky and moon slips down to slumber, I still wonder how many lives has poetry kept alive, and how many emotions has poetry abandoned to be rusted and drowned in loveliest demise. ~Purva
As the last winter wave recede back to the oak tree I look at flaxen bright sun resembling to ripened mango with vengeance, for summer no more yields roses and sunflowers evenly, nor does men and women take uniform steps on Gogh's canvas of briskly hued divergence.
I pull up my gaze and stare at the chaos which spreads like Monsoon rain, burdening already weighted shoulders around this vicinity. Ma says flowers were women at ancient times, existing as daughters of kasturi which took birth from the womb of deer, she tells tales that they are delicate and outburst in cacophony.
The skin etched on my flesh looks dark like those grey clouds blooming at June evening and it pricks me, tongues, like needles going in and out. There lights a rainbow on the candle of hope every time a flower blooms in spring, it reminds me of colleen victories and teaches me to be resilient when the last winter wave recede back to the oak tree. ~Purva
There's a salvation when, your feet don't long to melt in the footsteps of chaos and you share this breathing space word by word on a blank leaf. A home you made, a temple it looked; where whole universe is draped in an explicit cloak of a rhyming poetry.
There were times when, the world was painted in green except for the blue skies and sapphire oceans, where we made love in epilogues of rainbow and loosened-letters called stars of dusk. Moon did brightened, twilight borrowed some hues; when the geometry of our souls was drawn amidst the syllables of a beautiful poetry.
There's a closet opening in my arms, of flowers that smell of hope and books that read self-worth when sunshine wraps around me and clouds leak pride. A wound I kissed, It bloomed into a rose; where scars are sown and raised as strength into the empty spaces of a free-versed poetry.
There's peace in silence when, the words turn down to ashes but are still sung upon in poems admired by each passerby. A dream you weaved, a beauty that flourished; where the midnight rustle of leaves and the blow of air is treasured in the collection of poetry, and in a touch of moment with ink I understood, Everyone becomes a poet. ~Purva
A Tail-Rhyme (also known as tailed-rhyme) is a type of poem that begins with either a couplet or a triplet of lines that consist of rhymed lines.
This set of either a couplet or triplet is then followed by a "tail", which is a fourth line that does not rhyme with the couplet or triplet that preceded it. This tail line tends to be shorter in length than those lines within the couplet or triplet.
Certain lines might be not okay with some people. But that's the way it's supposed to be. Everyone's different. Everyone has different perspective, everyone has gone through different circumstances, grown up in different environment with different people. We're eternally learning new things. #learning
This place is like a dream to me where my reality doesn't know about that I exist here too. So thankful to those stygian nights who help me to reside within them and shelter my metaphors in a dreamy wardrobe which is made up of love and care. My silhouette is more blessed to find its home finally within the landscape of many heavenward syllables. Since three years, my dream has been breathing here with the melodies of an unseen lyre.
And, inside my cobbled dream, I'm just a mere orchid which blooms in a pallette of colours unknowingly and learning to bloom from other charming orchids and I shall continue to learn how to bloom and rise perfectly. One day, I will wither for sure but before the autumn's fall, I want to enjoy every side of this beautiful cruise.
This orchid is thankful for all the love you water and I will conceal the chalice of your kindness inside my closet to look that how I was loved and lived.
Completing three years here :-*
If I'll tag each and everyone whom I know and from whom I inspire, then it may take me a year to mention each and everyone. Kindly understand the situation xd. And really I'm thankful.
In sorrow's resign , in pleasure's hour he trailed his hand down my spine Slowly intertwining his darkness with mine and painted the whole city with messy strokes of grey rainbows . How long are they gonna last ?
In midnight's shroud, under moon less sky She painted his neck with violet marks Patiently waiting to be noticed By judges and butchers, who live to remark How long are they gonna last ?
Little love with feathery envelopes circled us as his lips licked the hellish-heaven between her thighs and they heard stars sing "they belong to each other". She heard Joseph Plunkett say you know even he heard them last May .
How long they are gonna last ?
A train of thoughts departed my mind When her tongue searched for love in my dark streets My restless soul found a place to crumble down with words written on walls of that creek Words that read " he's mine " How long are they gonna last ?
Warning among the folds, and the frozen hold , His sparkly digits pierced right into my soul through a suffocating galaxy of pearls and circling around he whispered "Sometime I wonder if you loved everyone like me " And i swallowed scrolls of fire that burned in his heart and sang back "No I never loved someone like you " How long it's gonna last ?
Weight on my heart crushed down the remaining pieces When I looked at that pine and that bench and the solitude Where she sat impatiently, looking at the same trees Trees that witnessed the big bang, the apocalypse I wondered if those tears were of sadness or conformity Confirming the bruised chassis of uncertainty The same question from a rugged past How long? How long are they gonna last ?