A dark poem as part of a poetic response to the prompt ‘Talking to My Soul’ given in The Significant League literary group for the #NationalPoetryMonth in April.
Talking to my soul amid the dense cacophony of haywire wants,
I had forgotten, that my pensive heart is a nomad with dementia.
Never knowing the morning from the evening, she remains moored
To dark mazes, breathes in crushed remembrances, protean verses.
The blood moon of those stories nestled in my crevices love being left alone
Under the shaded canopy of an eclipsed sky,
In a dark, sleepless corner of a wrinkled city.
At other times, she strolls around, forlorn, a misfit among the garrulous bubble of streets.
Talking to my soul amid the restless chants of those dismantled evenings,
I had left the nomad with her furrows, her estranged tombstones of memories.
I should have never left her alone, rather flown along with her
Like a little river amid the dark, endless maze, both finding our motions, then changing our courses.
I left her, and now wander in my darkscape of urban high-rises, a wasteland
Of disheveled bodies of color.
Have you found your elemental rhythm amid those colors of gloom, my nomad, demented heart?
Have you borne dark offsprings too?
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