Deadline to submit your poems has been extended to February 28th.


Shreya Mrigen

The concept is queer, wide suddenly;
My fingers don’t wrap around to hold the entire world,
My eyes, they focus, but lose vision.
There is more to see,
Little space to keep
The ambiguities of life, thrown upon,
Cast on repeat
To imprint on mind
The futility of this day,
Or the structured base
On which we made decisions yesterday.

Is it me or even you can feel?
With the mountain caps melting down,
Villages turned into cities and towns
The hope carried through yesteryears
Have formed a mound, cumbersome to bear.
I find it littered around the place,
The remains of the woman I had sculpted
As a little girl, one day.
I hear the descant of the rich over poor,
About a room for wiggle in economic affairs,
I hear of our footsteps reaching Mars,
Of the abyss created by conflicting beliefs, in the mass.

My hands are growing larger, helpless with time,
Voice is getting louder, inane to the crowd.
The coalescing of myriad troubles of the world
Into a bubble bigger than our heads,
Floating along
Is the only picture clear enough.
Perhaps I wish to alter that,
If only with conviction someone could say,
As they did, when we were kids,
“You alone can change the world”
Without it being decorated with words
Or layered by lies within,
Only waiting to throttle the dream
When it matures enough to be.

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