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The Quill

Prakriti Basu

They dream while they sleep
When all are but breathing corpses,
When streets succumb to the deafening silence
And Time still can't hold its horses.

I drink moonlight with pleasure so pure,
Drenching myself in contemplations,
I choose to dream while I'm wide awake
Under blue skies and radiant suns.

A quill pays me a visit, in every dream of mine
It is a remnant of a bird that perished while flying,
Up to the great clouds beyond its reach,
Leaving behind hope and infinite longing.

This Icarus of my soul longed to taste liberty,
To find release from the weight of words unsaid.
So I use the quill he left, to write
Words unheard and unread.

Unlike night-dreamers who strive to win
And run faster everyday, to stand first in line
I weave words using my quill,
Walking along, to relish the journey that's divine.

Daydreamers like me, see beds of roses,
Hear the thunder and the pouring rain.
Rose thorns leave us bleeding on our stride,
But waving the quill numbs the pain.

The quill is a thing of beauty, all by itself,
It soaks its tip in every wanderer's blood,
And bestows a purpose upon aimlessness
By creating symphonies unknown to the world.

The quill helps me walk the streets of grim realities,
Amidst those that seek plots in a graveyard,
It reminds me, I was not born to six feet under,
I was meant to walk in a boulevard.

This work has been published in Beetle Magazine's August 2020 Issue.


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