By Aryama Mukherjee![]()
I and my shadow,
My shadow and I ,
Burns too bright for the world to keep.
Defiantly singing hymns to the looking-glass,
Masqueraded men cannot see.
And maybe there lies hope in the fractured breath of broken faith,
The pendulum swings,
A frivolous necessity.
The sun has scalded me black and blue,
But how long do I sleep in the shade of Plato's fire?
Have the stars aligned for me to meet the daylight again?
Yearning to shatter this taciturn cosmic silence,
This enticingly blind peregrination through the clawing mist bearing no fruits,
And if Hell could spring serendipitous blooms with a ravenous fervour,
What prophecies do the zenith of phosphenes in my eyes hold
Even if they are spiraling out of a vortex of chance encounters with fate?