The noise,
I hear it from the shallow bush beneath my feet.
Drop by drop. The noise of silence.
an embalmed kiss of spewing night
an old lady combing the hair,
zig-zag, the ghosts on the staircase,
too flimsy,
often too blatant.
I sometimes think
and sniff the ink of other poets,
the others; who wander in lonely nights,
coughing the dust of clandestine tales,
the saucer with the spilled tea,
the thick frame
and the spoiled tunics,
too much I see for it blinds me,
This noise corrupts my hands and bones,
an illusion of reality, such a blunder to occur.
The noise sits in my chest,
fidgeting with the mind, often.
It does not leave,
it stays like an early rain,
too empty yet beautiful.
Read my latest published work here.
Beautiful!! A whirlwind of imagination!! 👍🤝
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Thank you:)
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Beautiful work as always, I was particularly drawn to the second stanza. Great stuff. 🙂
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Oh, how sweet:)
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A surrealism of beauty and imagination that I respect of you and really love it. 🙂
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I have missed so much from you.:)
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Bless you my friend. 🙂
You have a happy thanksgiving. 🙂
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Awesome
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Loved it
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Thank you.
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The noise in our head…a strange fascination we hold. Like a an early rain too empty yet beautiful. The noises hold us together. Beautiful poem Devika.
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You write like professional writer …
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