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  • solivagant_soul 2w

    .

    These quiet, unspoilt mornings an
    epitome of fresh start, the "meji" in the yard
    flickers up spectating the strained smiles
    like the dissection of a broken heart,
    too much space in the yard and
    too little folks to take part
    Stitching back my clipped wings,
    they sew the squalid patches over the
    kindred legacies stuffing gorged griefs
    with pounds of lucid illusions.
    Germinating apocalypse marked on my
    white walls like scarlet bloodstains
    freezing over cold memories.
    I cradle the late mother's grief and carry
    the father's suppressed femininity
    endeavouring to triumph as a Home.
    They feed me whitewash and drive out
    the gossamers clinging onto my head.

    But, when meandering sunsets swallow
    the undimmed skies festooned with
    splodge of pellucid clouds
    And the daughter drape her maa's red saree
    and wears the kajal to feel her absence
    in the closed ventricles of her heart
    I gulp down the tears yielding into Tacenda.
    Terminating to pan out as a latibule.
    For all happy families are alike, but every
    unhappy family is unhappy in their own way.
    I watch my deluxe white stairs leading to
    the son's room devoid of footsteps
    And the senile old man stitch seeds of
    blissful anecdotes on his
    wife's favourite saree everyday.

    My doors open and close eachday,
    windows dusted for the umpteenth time,
    kitchen accoutred with new utensils and cutleries
    Yet, a house could ne'er be a home without
    the loving touch of a mother.

    ©solivagant_soul

  • solivagant_soul 5w

    The cycle of divers stories

    Stories you read drains emotions in those
    laurel veins after brewing poinsettia
    radiance over fogged hearts.
    Empty pages but an overflowing heart,
    teenage is a pendulum swinging between
    'I know everything' and 'I know nothing',
    qualms stranded betwixt half opened
    boxes of azure griefs
    Several stories stink of guilt, and tears
    mark the pillows with its beloved's name.
    And with forehead scribbling memory grasses
    over the moles, love never slips away quietly
    it perpetually leave clawmarks with every trails

    Few stories you read at the blossoming
    peak of Juvenescence croons like carols
    from a bygone era and rain dancing on fingertips.
    Stars thread the sky like fairy lights, while
    mirthful grandma's stories on the lap of
    mellow hearth paints a glittering coat of
    snow permeating crystalline reveries.

    Fragments of stories from a septuagenarian
    shattered heart crochets hundred vergana
    elegies purloining few from Plath's
    poetries coagulated in blood.
    Memories warm you up from the inside, but they
    also tear you apart on a forlorn Christmas eve.
    And when the stars calls out his name
    knitting cobwebs on the spinal column.
    Raindrops speaks louder on that winter
    midnight, and through the window of the
    metropolis adorned with dotage,
    He seeks answers to countless queries,
    Of how we spit lies more than how
    we are made to chew baked realities.

    ©solivagant_soul

  • solivagant_soul 5w

    #cinquain #wod #writersnetwork #miraquill
    @writersnetwork @miraquill

    A cinquain on women

    • First : Caged voice of a Rape victim
    • Second : Caged voice of a grandma who couldn't read because of early marriage
    • Third : Caged voice of a wife burdened with chores and "gifted" with bruises at night.

    Read More

    Caged voices

    Her tears
    Are coloured with
    revolution, the stains
    on her peel unabated after
    million scours

    Undone dreams
    Stick out like toenails
    Queer words on the papers
    buzzing apocalyptic
    lullabies

    Burdens
    etch upon her spine
    like frost covered windows
    Cold silhoutte pounding bruises behind
    Closed doors

    ©solivagant_soul

  • solivagant_soul 8w

    P(a)ost-mortem of humanity

    • Aunt prepares some masala chai for the guests pouring them in tall coffee cups and then straining the remaining liquid into a tiny paper cup slides it to the side thereafter. The maid smiles back, her heart colder than the night and words buried in the tip of her tongue almost like a balloon saturated with delight but hollow inside to the hilt.

    • A mirthful cherub in her mother's embrace spritzing
    chukles around her while guzzling on the colours of life.
    And then her grandpa sipping up the bitterness of senescence, nibbling on his 'Bête noire' label,
    his oesophagus soaked in a chlorine ache.

    • Flower vases shrieks life as a palanquin of inherited storms when shatters on the streets named after callous tycoons. A lambourghini steering over the broken fragments and past a man cradling overloaded desolation. The sounds of smashing vases reverberates lamenting thunderstorms. With a void heart and futile pockets, he brings melancholy for dinner and his regrets feeds him fabricated optimism in morning breakfast.

    • The clouds drapes itself in grey metaphors and the windows of metropolis mourn over sad summer skies confronting saudade. We all live in winters but I heard the north pole has melted. The silence through the streets breaks like a china vase. Malnourished ribs entangled with gloomy gossamers and rust lining their spines.
    Slices of life, smeared with approaching death, as each vehicle passes by without sparing a penny in their empty bowls.

    ©solivagant_soul

  • solivagant_soul 8w

    I am back!��

    Read More

    .

    You planted these roses,
    Now I have to deal with the thorns.
    Butterflies became moths and
    My mother forgot to teach me
    How to endure the aftermath
    of thunder storms.

    ©solivagant_soul

  • solivagant_soul 9w

    With time and memories, love and attachment grows. That's the reason why few old things
    in our homes are so hard to discard.

    Para 1: Decrepit radio
    Para 2: Shabby vespa
    Para 3: Old Chifforobe


    Prompts used:

    • The noise is music to his ears
    • Love is a growing garland
    • Life is a barren field frozen with snow
    • A light in the sea of darkness


    #metaphor #wod #miraquill #writersnetwork
    @miraquill @writersnetwork


    Thank you @miraquill and @writersnetwork for EC.��

    Read More

    .

    With the dawn permeating on the limpid
    azure and our salutations returned with
    few more beams of sunlight
    The perpetual fulcrum of morning's delight,
    the archaic decrepit Radio parked on the
    topmost shelf of the wardrobe.
    Persistently in his austere demeanour my
    father with his oblong eyewear reposed
    on the lower part of his nose bridge swirls
    the convex switch to and fro.
    An immutable clamorous hullabaloo to others
    But, the noise is music to his ears, he repostes
    its vigour that radiates even after decades.


    When summers aren't amber with sunshines
    And the ether in winters is crystal clear
    like flutes of Champagne,
    With the contemporary scooter placed
    in the side of the backyard.
    He kickstarts the passé , shabby vespa
    to a point of ad nauseam ,
    The mere purpose to keep it alive.
    Since, thousand memories were binded
    in its wheels, the first salary of an
    aspired job, birthing it.


    On some tranquil, sombre evenings,
    when even the streets doesn't diffuse a
    concoction of laughters and murmurs,
    The black holes of my father's heart that
    spawn thousand perils like half eaten
    crayons of a child, then replenish
    itself with his hands slowly opening the Old,
    rickety chifforobe, that mom and dad
    purchased shortly after their marriage
    Exquisite souvenirs of my mother,
    few mekhela chadars and dainty
    ornaments treasured carefully in a shelf,
    unfurling a smile across his face.

    Life is a barren field frozen with snow
    where Love and Attachment is a
    growing garland that permeates light
    in the sea of its darkness.

    ©solivagant_soul

  • solivagant_soul 10w

    ~ Trusted people who exhibited sympathy when I was at my most vulnerable phase.

    ~ Sticking to the norms and trying to meet the expectations of people, being the "good girl".
    I failed to live my life to the fullest. Being the good girl i failed to remember that this soul needs some fun and relaxation too, in order to have companions and well wishers with whom we can goof around and also share our deepest secrets and tears with

    ~ Always believing that family and blood relation was everything and that they would always stand by me no matter what. But, i was wrong.




    My
    m̶i̶ (stakes)

    • "We are in the ocean of love, with each one of
    us being mere anchovies envisaging prodigious cachet of a foreign fisherman's reward woefully ending up at the dinner table"
    When a blanket of winter's fog suffocated my illuminating sky deluging my empyrean
    viridescent meadows with maroon gore.
    I lurked alongside my shadow enumerating
    blobs of unswerving tears.
    And when the sky rained stars ensuing after
    a thousand epoch, rousing me from a perdurable slumber, like a child among the fallen leaves
    my hands knitted utopic dreams.
    Little did i knew, the sonnets i weave from
    silence were a pitch of fantasy in a glass full
    of reality. Everything comes with a price.
    My feet unaquainted with the waves of the sea, espoused the terra firma as an epitome of Nirvana.
    His love was the bud, I bloomed pain and bliss together


    • "Depths of an ocean, a skeleton sunken city,
    a sulfer bottom whale perched on a throne.
    Life- eternal and endless, superiority embellished
    on its flippers, a heart weighing 400 pounds
    derelict, devoid of any companion."
    Head full of fire flies, tender fingers adhered
    to praxis of mensuration nodus, swallowing catamenial pangs. My little frame burgeoned stacking regimen laid out by stern pedagogues, praised for my well bred demeanor by elders. However, when the solemn skies depeleted of azure, I found myself surrounded by desolation.
    Was I enough alone?


    • "An ataraxic moana, appeasing countless fishes, under the sole shelter, birthing in
    cognated animalia but is kinship just about blood?"
    The scars and burnt marks on the fingers of
    my mother's brittle hands, narrated to me with
    tacit silence, the mephitic paramountcy of men
    in a family pursuing patriarchy.
    When each time,a gallant lassie was labelled
    "Vile" and her coexisting brother termed "Manly".
    The moment childhood ended, I cognized multitudinous wolves in sheepskin through
    the mist, under the shelter of the same ancestry, veins carrying homogeneous blood.

    ©Solivagant Soul


    Thanks for EC! ✨
    @miraquill and @writersnetwork

    #journal #start #wod #miraquill #writersnetwork
    @miraquill @writersnetwork

    Read More

    My
    m̶i̶ (stakes)


    "We are in the ocean of love,
    with each one of us being mere
    anchovies envisaging prodigious
    cachet of a foreign fisherman's reward
    woefully ending up at the dinner table"

    "Depths of an ocean, a skeleton
    sunken city, a sulfer bottom whale
    perched on a throne.
    Life- eternal and endless, superiority
    embellished on its flippers,
    a heart weighing 400 pounds
    derelict, devoid of any companion."

    "An ataraxic moana, appeasing countless fishes,
    under the sole shelter, birthing in cognated
    animalia but is kinship just about blood?"

    ©solivagant_soul

  • solivagant_soul 10w

    " Murderers are not monsters, they're men.
    And that's the most frightening thing about them."
    ~ Alice Sebold


    #like #wod #writersnetwork #miraquill
    @writersnetwork @miraquill

    Read More

    .

    There's mercury in the moonlight tonight instead of
    silver and edges of knives are crayoned with gazillion crimes where asphyxiated songs of the dead are buried in
    Blankets

    I watch the decaying salutations of sacred
    grounds like falling leaves on a windy day.
    I could write endless threnodies on wilted
    daffodils sinking under the crevasse.
    Whispering wind chimes espouses
    M U T I S M

    And when the moonlight hide behind the winter's
    fog and silver clouds pour rivulets of its brimming
    agony, myriads of aching souls stroll by the river and invokes to all the moribund mothers of the world

    ~ways to bring love back from the graveyard~

    ©solivagant_soul

  • solivagant_soul 11w

    .

    Like dewdrops, I lingered accentuating
    your viridescent beauty
    Yet, you empowered the zephyr to
    tyrannize until I no longer existed.

    ©solivagant_soul

  • solivagant_soul 11w

    • | Silence | •


    The shabby toys and plushies in my
    cupboard reposes stashing a handful of
    anamnesis in derisory spaces of the shelf.
    Where credulous silence often plays
    hide and seek with transient kalopsia
    The sofa sets in the living room are adorned
    with carmine Threadbare covers tacked
    meticulously by mother's delicate hands
    I often asked her about the innumerable
    scars on her palms and the ones that
    purloined the pink tint in her fingers.
    And secured with a bright smile, she'd decode
    it as years of her alliance with the kitchen
    knives and Ladles since juvenescent days.

    The sewing machine, roughly three
    decades old, but closer than an inch
    to her heart, embraces the rust on its
    tear stained cheeks .
    Lingering on the same corner of the
    spare room fixing a mirthful grin across
    its face during the day
    And grieving one thousand pieces
    of elegies when the sun departs
    for a ~ s i e s t a ~

    The vacant side of my father's queen sized
    bed permeates a concoction of odour
    reverberating her untimely demise and a
    fragrance spritzing her fabricated existence
    And few romantic novels stacked on a tiny
    shelf of my drawer, half read, inflict frowns
    each time I open it by mistake
    For love had retired bit by bit like changing
    hues of the leaves, since the moment my
    fingers placed white flowers on her grave
    and my weak moth-screams bid a
    farewell to August

    ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ʙᴜᴛᴛᴇʀꜰʟʏ, ɪ ʙᴜʀɢᴇᴏɴᴇᴅ
    ᴀᴅᴀᴍᴀɴᴛʟʏ ʟᴇᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴄᴏᴏɴ ᴏꜰ
    ᴄʜɪʟᴅʜᴏᴏᴅ ɪɴ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴄᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ ᴍᴇᴛᴀᴘʜᴏʀꜱ,
    ꜱᴇʀᴠɪɴɢ ᴘᴏᴇᴛʀɪᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴜʟᴘɪɴɢ ᴘɪʟʟꜱ ᴏꜰ ʟɪᴀʙɪʟɪᴛɪᴇꜱ.

    ©Solivagant Soul

    #silence #wod #miraquill #writersnetwork #ceesreposts
    @miraquill @writersnetwork

    Read More



    And like a butterfly, I burgeoned
    adamantly leaving the cocoon of
    childhood in silence, cooking metaphors,
    serving poetries and gulping pills of liabilities.

    ©solivagant_soul