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  Dec 2022 ranveer joshua
Evan Stephens
The olive dusk tents overheard,
pleated, wavering, starless,

ghostly, embossed with moon,
scratched with street light.

Cars hunt across a new ice blanket,
casting tambourine shakes

onto the pavement as they brake
in cherry arrays. Tonight I watch

my neighbors in their curious coves,
each jaundiced room a flat Argus eye,

as they bed down, break off
the lamp network, pull blinds down

over myriad invisible couplings.
I have hesitations in the dark.

I see the neon-breasted giants
towering towards midnight

in this aching pavilion.
Like prisoners we send messages

with our mirrors.
At the Christmas market,

an etched man sells fake Egyptian
canoptic jars. "Viscera," he says,

"it holds your heart after you die."
The jar looks like it was carved

last week by a bored child.
Even if our hearts shrunk

to apricot pits, abandoned,
betrayed, disappointed, this jar

couldn't hold even one.
Still, I consider it for a moment.

But the olive tent is waving to me:
no sale, no sale, no sale.
ranveer joshua Nov 2021
The pen writes pretentious literature,
Unoriginal ideas, they say;
Gloom fills the page – sentences are sombre;
Pages are robustly torn – thrown away;

At a loss for words – the mind is empty,
Inspiration struggles to call my name;
Day by day, treasured skills become rusty,  
Writer’s Block is the cause of my defame;

O! Where are you, the words of my passion?
I await your return so eagerly;
I bear the wait of your intercession,
My thin patience is ready to run free!

Depart from me, Writer’s Block, rapidly!
How will I break you before you break me?
ranveer joshua Nov 2021
Though the loneliness sets in, among the crowds,
Here, within themselves, they find their solace;
Euphoric events have now lost their appeal;

Mindfulness is the key to rest, they recite;
Exaggerated were their extravagant emotions on the dance floor,
Losing themselves in self discovery;
Over-sensationalized was the persona,
Diving into the depth of purple elixirs;
Rave, rave, rave,
As the sun replaces the strobelights,
Melancholy rises with her rays,
And suddenly, life seems meaningless;
The melodrama,
It strikes;
Cleaning up the champagne glasses, after the catastrophe
ranveer joshua Nov 2021
Cashmere of the Earth,
You carpet the ground;
Invasive in nature,
Creeping where you shan't be,

Cashmere of the Earth,
What secrets do you keep from me?
For your fickle roots of deception cling onto the fruitful bark,
Only to be blown away when the clouds rage;
And the truths of your Eden call my name;

O, Cashmere of the Earth,
Lush is the lust of your soft touch;
For you are a blooming forest,
In which the fibres of your being blossom amidst the lures of this world;
Your growing greens grasp the barren ground,
The ground that cannot nurture you any longer;

Cashmere of the Earth,
You cushion the rocks with tenderness;
But you must clutch onto them harder!
Else the waves will erase the memory of your velvet embrace,
Leaving only the desolate stone;

Cashmere of the Earth,
Where are you to creep now?
The Tree will not sustain you any more,
For you are nothing but a mere illusion;
An ornate facade, soon to fade away
ranveer joshua Oct 2021
April in Dublin signifies not only a time and place, yet a feeling. A feeling of the brisk morning air, woven into the intricacy of light, sparse rainfall; enough to coat the blooming leaves on Ailesbury Road in droplets of dew. Tiny puddles form in between the cracks of the ancient cobblestone road, drowning the lush moss – basil in colour – that once grew in its place. As dawn makes her presence, the radiant sunlight peeks through the branches of the Sycamore trees, originally sheltering the lane from the indecisiveness of Irish weather. The earthy scent of petrichor emanates from St. Stephen’s Green, while the putrid scent of damp cigarette stubs race to reach the nostrils first. Petals of blush cherry blossoms gracefully fall to the asphalt path, with some caressing tender skin with its velvet touch. In the afternoon, St. Patrick’s Cathedral echoes in Church Latin, whilst the cars pass – with their bellowing engines – on The Coombe, pacifying the hum of pedestrian chatter that cohabitate simultaneously. As cloudy skies fade to a blue dusk, the lights jig the River Liffey; its yellow reflection moving with the waves. Crowds drunkenly skip along the quay, singing old Celtic hymns off key, while also digesting the sweet, caramelized, mild bitterness of Guinness – the finest of Irish stout beer. At the end of the day, the night retires to her slumber, anticipating newer ordinary, yet sensational experiences that May will bring along.
inspired by my favourite author, sally rooney.
  Sep 2021 ranveer joshua
going home isn’t always
returning to a place.
it is returning to yourself.
ranveer joshua Aug 2021
oceanic feeling echoing throughout my house
while tripping over my plaid pajama pants
and the soles of my feet rejuvenated by the hot concrete
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