I am more than thrilled to announce that my second collection of poems will be soon released this year. “Crimson Skins” deals with life journey, loss, isolation, etc. I have stayed honest throughout my poems and this took almost all of my energy. If you are fond of my writing style I urge you to keep your eyes wide open for it. This book is an outcome of my 1.5 years of sweat, tears, and ink.
I hope you all stay excited as I publish this book with Indie Blu(e) Publishing. This amazing book cover has been designed by my talented friend and artist Henna Johansdotter.
For i see a tree behind a house made of clouds
a slow whisper entrapped beneath the soil
that never moves an inch
a state of wellness only getting harrowed
like a static voice losing the soft cotton-like warmth
each day where the bells pause to chime.
We come across rooms full of stars and nights
and things even harsher
Imaginations of people breaking apart
or true maybe
The slice of pain is where it must have all begun
numb and electric
Everything seems on fire
where it ends
where it begins
no one knows.
Thins behind the valley seem plain
with ordinary roses
ordinary chirpings and shadow.
Thank you for always reading my work on WordPress. My love for you all will always be huge. Though it would mean a lot if you can subscribe to my tiny letter newsletter. I would be sharing some beautifully curated poetry of some great poets/ articles/ artworks and it shall also have insights into my work at your mailbox.
You won’t be disappointed.
You just have to subscribe to the mailbox and you can enjoy different poetries while sipping on your favourite tea and maybe anytime you wish to read. I still will be hanging onto my this platform along with my Instagram, twitter handle.
Night breaks apart like thousand skies on Earth
with a hint of mauvish whisper
the whisper spills everywhere
enveloping things around me.
Dreams create illusion of being permanent
of sticking to the odd times
with a mayhem stuck to the air.
You would wish to sit and digest
each tiny aspect of dreams
with a mind of a spider
trying to decode the methods
but you would end up missing on your pills.
It does not matter
the warm shade of conclusions
till the time your hands are rooted in the soil
till the time you hands feel the pain,
yellow or orange.
There is something to change the blood into passion,
dreams that becomes nightmares
colours that become a chalice of poison.
It does not matter.