My words are all but lies,
released into the bewildering wild,
in opiate nights under
the sun-bathed moon with crimson wine
all that set to conspire,
setting my imagination on fire,
imploring me to oblige,
to ponder and to settle down, to retire.
To retire into the arms
of the chair besides my desk and write.
And I write about love,
and death and all in which I find beauty,
And I make a mockery of it all,
every night when I retire,
all that set to conspire,
setting my imagination on fire,
didn't ever realize my ineptness
to set alight the mind, the pyre,
that is in a way only a true lover
could ever aspire .. to.
And so I set to write nonetheless,
of the tempest, that is her soul,
that blows on the lands of evermore,
burning ever bright
like the christening jewel
of a crown in clear daylight,
But again I realize my ineptness
to set alight the mind, the pyre,
that is in a way only a true lover
could ever aspire .. to.
And so I surmise,
from the evident lack of device,
love, I have never realized.
I have never felt it, I could never write.
But yet again I set my ineptness aside,
and continue to scribble and write,
And I find poetry in the death of a flower,
caught in a tumultuous monsoon shower,
That pleads to the skies, and dies,
amongst remorseful eyes.
Eyes, that were never mine,
and it is beyond evident and I realize,
how fickle and unwise,
my words will seem to those eyes,
that belong to the mother of a lost son,
and an orphan of a lost mother,
a lover, his blessed soul,
that bloomed today with new found love, and further
I realize, these words, never writ better
than those on the lips of a bereaved lover.
Kartiek Agarwal
