Calling all poets. Submissins are open for Wingword Poetry Competition!

Marks of Melancholy

By Paridhi Puri

crumbled up in thin packages of light,
my voice filters my tongue as it gasps and gulps for tiny syllables to hold on to,

a rail passes down by throat, on tiny wheels fashioned from the blanket of the sky, rotating, revolving, revelling around my tiny cords,

as they play see-saw with my mood swings

and silence chokes it into two.

a hanging, dilapidated memory of sorts,

left to decay on the floor of my chest.

as the air tries to engulf the blood, and the blood tries to engulf the air.

i feel possessed of wanting aches pressed in my lungs,

because it resurrects mere marks of consciousness

stapled on my skin

for the world to unsee.


  • It’s beautiful. I tried to think how to modify the irctc you ran down your throat, but it looks the best as it is. On a personal note, I hope you don’t get consumed by more of whatever this you are on. Keep writing, brilliant piece.

    Rahul Sivarajan
  • “as they play see-saw with my mood swings”
    - Some powerful imagery you employ. Nice work.


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