O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!!

A piece of mine, that looks so fine,
Yet I never mattered in the fragile line.
Let them paint me cruel, unworthified-
A villain crafted by their own design.

They tell the tail in the black and white,
While casting shadows in the light.
But I just want to say goodbye-
No exit applause, no final bow, no crowd-defined.

I murdered myself to end this night,
Just to see you happy, see you smile
-even the cloud cloud feel it right.
I'm not wrong, I was cast as the  villain,
Because it's easier to call you divine.

The truth unfolds, still lost in time,
And maybe it's simpler-
To be the villain than explain what's behind.

By Vedanta Anagha (Mayank Tripathi)

only
when
our
souls
that
have fallen
from
the
heavenly
stars
are
to
meet
and
greet each other
near or far

The porch sags beneath me,
its gray boards sighing.
I light a cigarette,
send my breath to the wind-
maybe White‑Shell Woman
will carry it to the horizon.
He's fired again,
last kitchen inside forty miles
that could stand him,
bridge burned behind.

At lunch I’ll call,
say get out
or Daddy and Jimbo
will haul your whiskey bones
to lie with the rattlesnakes.

I swore to Mama and to Owl,
I will keep the night honest,
I wouldn’t spend my years
driving a man to dialysis,
watching Irish blood unravel
like wet lace.

But I remember the long Covid winter-
two bears in one den,
one soft, one starved-
when Spider Grandmother
wove us together
in the dim blue light
of tele-novellas and snow.
I almost believed
it was love again.

He pops up like a coyote
in the truck’s passenger door,
smelling of smoke and ruin.
Eighty‑five down the prairie road,
bug‑spattered glass,
sky bending blue,
fields gold as escape.

This isn’t working, I whisper.
We want different things.

Don’t, he says,
fingers crawling my thigh

No-
I shove.
Sweetness peels,
the sleeping volcano wakes.

Before his hand
can teach me the rest,
I already know:
there is no leaving.
The road is long,
lined with white crosses,
and Ghost Buffalo
has been leading me
down it all my life.

He sleeps in the meadows
                       on a pillow made of flowers
Arc-Angel voices are heard
              from afar
A gentle wind
                  blows softly
                             at the nape of His neck.  
               Is he sleeping or dreaming ?
                                I don't know, but I feel Him on my skin.  
He created the world
                      in seven days
His garment is made of sackcloth              and camel hair
The scars in his hands
                    have healed beautifully
from the salve of His father's loving hands....
He sleeps in the meadows
                                      like a warrior King of old
who has just saved the world from a great disaster.  
Holding back floods, earthquakes, gunfires, wars
                                  he leaves behind the scent of flowers
where there once was hunger,
                  people aren't hungry anymore.
He feeds me honey from the shackles of my
                                     fraying soul,
as I fall asleep next to him,
                           soundly,  
                       like a child, who could never ask for more.

Autumn is calling...
It's the perfect time to take a leisurely stroll
through the forest,
breathe in the crisp air
and enjoy the magical views that autumn offers.
Under the canopy of shimmering yellow and red
where a symphony of trees plays a soothing melody,
if you listen carefully.

and i don't want to be the moon
i want to be a star
how they all are dead
and yet they spark
and spark so big
and light so bright
and all because a tiny hydrogen
decides to collide

How deep was the well?
Deep enough to echo my name back with indifference.
Deep enough to hold every scream I never let out.
It didn’t swallow my body —
It swallowed the parts of me I didn’t know could drown.
My soul choked first.
And no one saw me sinking.

How deep was the well?
Deep enough for silence to grow teeth.
To gnaw at the corners of my sanity
While I smiled in public and bled in secret.
Where light couldn't reach me,
And hope knocked once, then left.

I threw prayers like pennies,
Wishing someone would hear the splash—
But even God seemed to whisper,
"Not now."

I built a home in the ache,
Hung memories like picture frames on stone walls,
Learned to breathe through grief,
To sing lullabies to my panic
And call it healing.

How deep was the well?
Deep enough that time didn’t pass — it dripped.
One moment. Then another.
Each echo louder than the last.
And all the while,
I was vanishing behind a voice that said,
"You're fine."

But if you listened closely,
If you stood at the edge,
You’d hear a faint voice rising from the dark —
Not begging to be saved,
Just asking to be seen.

Because sometimes,
The worst kind of drowning
Is when you look dry on the outside
And no one knows you’re dying beneath.

How deep was the well?
So deep, it felt like those days I was mistreated,
When I had no one in life but God alone.
When every prayer was a whisper against the walls,
And the silence felt like abandonment.
I screamed inwardly, quietly—
Hoping mercy would find me before despair did.

It was deep enough to forget who I used to be.
Deep enough to blur the surface above me.
And in that darkness,
Only faith kept my heart from breaking completely.

But I’m still here.
And if you’re listening,
Maybe you are too.