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Prashant Shaurya Sep 2017
Her voice is music for my soul
And She's my April muse
They way she came into my life
Is a tale too abstruse.

She took my heart in gentle strokes
In a manner unheard, unseen
I thought we'd write a story too
About a monarch and his queen.

The mighty Craftsman up above
But took me by surprise; for
Everything I wished to write
Got vanished in disguise.

Prashant Shaurya ©
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Prashant Shaurya Sep 2017
My nights seem vexatious

For the pen's now been cursed

The waves don't allure me

I beg from door to door. 



The Ink has frozen long ago

Heart beats bear no trace

Somewhere in the wilderness

Muses have found a place.



Prashant Shaurya©

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A poem about Writer's Block
Prashant Shaurya Sep 2017
Initiation

Mighty waves traverse across
The realm of time and space
They Leave behind some faint imprints
While horizon slowly shrinks.

   2. Observance

The boatman gives a vicious call
And the nets are put in place
If tides take a winsome turn
He would fill up his plates.

    3. Discovery

The sunset lass builds sand castles
While sea breeze soothes her tender skin
Enchanted by her gentle smile
I write about my April muse.

Prashant Shaurya ©

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Prashant Shaurya Sep 2017
The li'll goat galloped

While twilight kissed

Contours of night.



She walked away

While the moon

Guided her Home.



© Prashant Shaurya

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Prashant Shaurya Sep 2017
When we hold on to a pious thought
And pray from dusk to dawn
Would longing stand the test of time
When we pursue the unknown.

When reverence leads to yearning for
A glimpse of the Mighty Queen
Would She shin down from heaven to earth
To show us the Unseen.

There comes a time which seldom comes
In a pilgrim's ordained path
When at doorstep of the Goddess
He finds not love, but wrath.

Prashant Shaurya ©
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Prashant Shaurya Sep 2017
The poet wished to cry out loud
And vent the slithering pain
Yet void in his sinking heart
Won't let him flee this blain.

The pen then oozed in torrid red
To scribe 'bout the hovering gloom
Yet mind feared to find the words
Which would write the poet's doom

If the poet broke his promise
No flower would ever bloom
So pen hid the poet's torment
Within a heap of silken plumes.


Prashant Shaurya ©
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Prashant Shaurya Sep 2017
The pen rambled across the pad
To write something untrue
Yet mind and heart did seldom see
When the pen hid it's rue.

Mind could think but heart would long, for
Insidious days to part
Yet pen would foster spilling of
Blood from the wounded heart.

Verses written in sparkling red
Couldn't sort the haze around
A poet caught in the vicious fray
Wouldn't want to be homebound.

Prashant Shaurya ©
All Rights Reserved
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