By Prashant Tripathi
Birth, what is birth if not liberal breathing
Dearth, a boxed heart scarce of dreaming
Mirth, a shared harmony with reincarnating meanings
I chose none but gazed them around me wreathing.
Meandering rivers, roads, rumbling clouds
Laid before me but dirt was turned to dusty grounds
Now and then I saw a path with placid sounds
Once I stepped a toe towards, at bay from the insane crowds.
Eight billion were there still I chose this
A path of seclusion might sculpt my wits
But who can mend the broken and abnormal strings
Maybe psychotic instruments simply feel solitary bliss.
Toe after toe seasons changed
Worries, dilemmas, confusions the heavy heart gained
Still, letters in head rearranged to poetry, everytime my grief rained
Musical skies, queer grass, dancing winds, irresistible stars guided me and trained.
A lesson of time with some other structural ones
Preached by the wilderness through his brutal tongues
Icy dawns, stormy noons, lifeless nights, veiled moons and my nocturnal runs
As my thick skull parted, the message seeped in alike a flower pollinates and blossoms
Yearning for dusk of rest through the end of chaos
A bower appeared on the path of corporeal loss
As I placed my spine against the bark with collected ethos
Cognition I embraced, this soil has unending chaos yet on isolated rocks
Sigh utters, "the unspoken theory of chaotic paths shall be breathing as it was".
Very touching lines
Very touching lines