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Angshuman_ChakravartyPoems
Your hair is short, And, You've beautiful eyes. I am a lonely street, Listening to the evening wind. But, The wind would come to spoil the moon, And, I would fit in this noisy truth. A natural flower being too dead, to mock the sleeping sequence of- a buzzing hope. The scraggy anger would get absorbed, like salty waters among the gravels, deep below, and all down below, The foam of disguise. But I would rise again, to make it sure, like- The Eclipsed Moon, to eat your Rose, And I would toil my Greeky hands, All hunger, but an image fails. And, I would capture an orange light- For, I would burn my fear with an asymmetrical fright. And, I would intoxicate the absence of all links, upon the suspended mechanics of all- suspicious inklings.
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Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 8:38 AM UTC
The Travelogue.
Your hair is short, And, You've beautiful eyes. I am a lonely street, Listening to the evening wind. But, The wind would come to spoil the moon, And, I would fit in this noisy truth. A natural flower being too dead, to mock the sleeping sequence of- a buzzing hope. The scraggy anger would get absorbed, like salty waters among the gravels, deep below, and all down below, The foam of disguise. But I would rise again, to make it sure, like- The Eclipsed Moon, to eat your Rose, And I would toil my Greeky hands, All hunger, but an image fails. And, I would capture an orange light- For, I would burn my fear with an asymmetrical fright. And, I would intoxicate the absence of all links, upon the suspended mechanics of all- suspicious inklings.
Angshuman_Chakravarty
Written by
Angshuman_Chakravarty
23/M/India, Kolkata.
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 8:38 AM UTC
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