Write about it? Why would I do that? You said yourself writing bought you solace. Yeah, well,Didn’t bring anybody else any solace. I wasn’t any good.
No one need ever read it, You could always burn it.
What would I write about? anything whatever brings you peace a memory, a thought, a place, Write it down.. a place?- The great Gatsby
I could write about anything as I see it, about eyes,about loneliness, strife born both within and without the sense of what is within ,about pain, love, loss, power and a myriad of emotions. I could write about the ocean of pain we wade through, float on, or i could write about flying above this pain. I could write about the beauty in all its forms. Yes I could write act of making love, of course, the moments when man, woman assume an existence, each in the most primal and beautiful form.


The morning sun awakens from a reverie a world,                                                        

 A world asleep at the surface,                                                                                                  

 Yet alive at its core,

A core, a bosom that hides, that carries dreams, desires, hopes,                    

 Hopes that dance, meet their lovers,                                                                                  

  Feed that glaring emptiness with more hopes,

Hopes of a never yet felt fulfillment,

    A fulfillment that the soul ever craved for,                                                                     

 Sought it with a gusto unseen in another life form,

A fulfillment that ever remains unsatiated,                                                            

Take the unfathomable form of nightmares,                                                  

Our fears awaken dreary demons,

We see the demons within us reflected,                                                              

Reflected in the in the unearthly spirits ploughing our nights,        


Yet the nights dark at the periphery,                                                                                    

 Are illustrated with colors and prophecies,                                                          

Picturesque images of lands yet untouched,                                                                

 Not encroached by the brightness of the day,

Grotesque redness of our fears,                                                                                          

keeps the adrenaline thumping in our veins,                                                                      

The sparks ignited by the fears have never been more compelling and honest,

Yet we, breathless mates fresh from the enticing night,                                                  

 We  find ourselves breathing safely in the light,                                                            

  Fearing our nights, retreating into blinding light are we?

Or are we mortals escaping on a escapade, exodus,

Eloping into a world opaque to the rising sun

Grasping the hand,

Making love with our eyes to our eternal,

Immortal true selves.



I find solace now.

P.S- I was not sure about a name for the poem.

Categories: life, life, poetry, soul | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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