Callous whispers that uproar the fear in my mind,

Bounty tales of my existence may cease to be left behind.

Before the pen has surmounted the sufficient ink,

Off the high piles of books, the characters beheld,

I stand forlorn, under the brink of adversity,

About to sink.

Blest with the beauty of healing humans,

With parts of me that help them emancipate

From their miseries, from their violent incapability to communicate.

The mortality of my being twisted in the trap of virtue,

Traces of metaphors that personify the true,

Every word of my soul pledged to sinew,

For death and I had a rendezvous

Shielding under the symbolism of this fleeting breath,

I draw under the apparel of the hidden depth.

Unsmeared touches that shattered the untold lines,

The syllables recorded silently scarred my spine.

Scarred by the lustful eyes,

They say every dead thing needs more mourning

But nothing left to mourn in me is alive.

Galloping in strides, I danced away,

To be written in a sonnet that announces its way.

With his hands, he tore me into pieces apart,

I held my breath to quench the pain in my heart.

Blest are those who can unconcernedly find,

To be at peace with the title in their mind.

For chaos defined the context of my muse,

The looms of grey highlighted the mighty blue.

I was the poem that was in love with a poet, yearning to be his dream

Alas, all I am left with is grief, the continuation of love that ended in my screams.

Thus, unseen from the world I lie,

In a utopian land where I see the unknown sky.

Kneeling in gratitude unlamented I wish to stay,

I am poetry that seeks redemption,

Steal me away from the starry ray,

Rock the ages, cleft for me,

Let me write myself in the precipice of thee.

-Hridya