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Parth Jain Jun 2020
As falsity of a mirage
a disguised interim hope.
As silver edging dark cotton,
an uncertain feeble scope.

An illusion perhaps
yet a heaven's twin.
Greedy golden locks draping,
contours of her bare skin.

As if to chisel her youth,
a stream fell from the haze.
Her scent vanquished that of roses,
obscured it in a maze.
Parth Jain Jun 2019
It might be warmth
buried deep into the winters.
or the last azalea
standing against the autumn.

Might be a rare constellation
seen by hopeless drunk lovers
or the sight of an oasis
to a lost drowsy caravan.

Hope can be fragile
yet it won't be nulled.
It won't be lost.
Parth Jain Jun 2019
His music was lost
no longer was it bound
to the realm of attainable.

The symphony was spoiled
sickened of coherence
of pretentious harmony.

It saw a silence
with a cragged enclosure
averting the perfect sounds.
Letting only the crude in
like beats of a broken heart
like rustling of weary leaves.
Parth Jain May 2019
Whispers that may die
for the sake of fancy noise
weren't born so weak.

they once were songs
memorials of the truths
that wise couldn't speak.
Parth Jain May 2019
Shouldn't the stars be blamed
and the roses, and the coasts?
Why aren't the poems of great love
and tales of severe gallantry
locked in a distant vault?

Where no soul with surging youth
no child with raw ambitions
can reach or see them.

For they allow lethal hopes
give misplaced illusions.
Amuse a few passing breaths
and mock for a lifetime.
The strong incoherence between the reality and the beliefs can be unpleasant at times.

— The End —