Theme: Melancholy

Poetry Flies Its Hem

I may break
But never turn into dust.
Sun-soaked day like a seagull 
Glides with a cruising ship
Crosses a long way 
With ease.
Amidst waves, unaware 
When the tired evening descends  
At port 
They too anchor themselves 
But in two different worlds,
Where at chirping of the bird
The indifferent mast
Doesn’t unfurl the sail.
Where does it keep its eyes,
At which Sirius? 

Amassing words later, 
Die at silent grave
Facing the night.   
In wakefulness amidst stars
Cringed memories
Break me down
Yet I don’t turn into dust.
Desolated at the shore 
Of a lonely island 
Holding words on my chest
I tie an ocean
Where poetry flies its hem.  


More By  :  Kingshuk Chakraborty

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