Dissent

 

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image credits- Favim.com

 

Tongues of slacking fingers turn
the yellow pages of the book.
Between letters lies space, space of empty bowl
the shadow, the lamp, the oil,
without sunset, the vessel and substance.
Dried petals of last night’s flower
forgot the meadow of my mouth.
The breeze did not speak my name.
lost in the trivial oblivion
Even the sunset refused to caress my soul.

Β©My Valiant Soul


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my valiant soul

A dreamer and a believer for the upliftment of women rights. A published poet, author, writer. Believes in dancing and cooking amazing food for hungry souls at times. Loves to write and write till the moon is satisfied. My writings can be found at Visual Verse, Indian Periodical, Sick Lit mag, Duane's Poetree, Thistle magazine, among various others. Curator of Olive Skins.

39 Comments

  1. Such a deep sense of abandonment in this piece. Dried petals of last night’s flowers – once blooming flowers wilt as the wind no longer whispers your name. Such heaviness. I felt this so deeply that tears rose to my eyes. Beautiful writing, Devika.

    Liked by 1 person

      1. I know and I do feel it. The emotion is overwhelming. I can not just see the dissent but I can experience it. I am there, too, in that place and am happy to at least share this place with you, at this moment. You are most welcome, my dear friend.

        Liked by 1 person

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