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Mirika Rayaprolu Poem
The word, 'word', is more than just a mere word.
"The play of words is absolutely beautiful." They say,
but little do they know that the words actually play.
As I stare into my open book, I see Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn and Joe Harper escape to the lone Jackson's Island.
As I stare into my book, I see Katniss Everdeen run to the Cornucopia to grab her bow and arrow.
As I stare into my book, I see Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy being crowned the Kings and Queens of Narnia.
As I stare into my book,
I see the words transform into beautiful human beings and magical creatures,
which gently stroll around me in circles,
and fix their bold, strong gaze on me.
"The darkest place on Earth is a closed book." They say,
but little do they know that a closed book is the brightest place in the universe.
Little do they know that just as when darkness falls,
the tiny, little words come out to play radiating their own light.
As I open my book,
I see that the little words are merrier and happier.
And I can't help but crack a smile,
to wonder what the world would look and feel like,
if only words were understood.
"Expecto Patronum!" I hear Harry Potter scream his lungs out.
"We accept the love we think we deserve. " I hear Charlie politely say.
"Don't rain on my parade. " I hear Christian Grey sexily mumble.
"It's a metaphor. " I hear Augustus Waters distinctly say.
"H-How?" I ask surprised.
Or rather mesmerised.
I hear a faint, little voice from my book.
So faint that I press my ear to the pages to get a clear hearing.
I hear one word.
"Magic."
Copyright © Mirika Rayaprolu | Year Posted 2016
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Details |
Mirika Rayaprolu Poem
As my closed eyes open and the dream of my calves playing among the corals curtail,
I realize that my body is contiguiting the earth,
perhaps the shore,
because I can feel the sharps rays of the blazing sun puncture my tender skin.
Yes. It is the shore.
I have beached myself,
for I can feel the grains of sand resining to my throat rooves.
Ouch! There's a sudden ache in my rostrum.
OH those goddamn Dioxins and Furans!
Must have corrupted me when I ate those planktons for breakfast.
I am now running out of breath,
the sun is too coruscating and I'm dehydrating at an accelerated rate,
and and I'm drying out.
I know it.
I can feel it.
Are these my last moments?
Is this my destiny?
With an overly-dehydrating body and failing organs,
I decide to take one last walk down memory lane.
Oh my charming lady,
my adorable babies,
never will I consign to oblivion the wonderful aeon I had with my mates,
travelling in pods to outlying, faraway waters.
Ooh! I'm getting worse.
My breath is quickening,
it's almost over.
I see someone walking over to me,
perhaps a rescuer.
Looks like he's got his little daughter along with him.
Under the dazzling sun,
the tears of the little girl dry up leaving stains on her trepidated face.
Anytime now.
The little human places her soft palm on my paper-like body,
and whispers something which happens to be the last words I ever hear.
"Fishy? Why are you sleeping?"
As my shutters close and the seagulls await my death,
I fall into a deep slumber.
From which I will never awake.
Copyright © Mirika Rayaprolu | Year Posted 2016
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Details |
Mirika Rayaprolu Poem
As I walk this grey, cobble stoned path,
I can hear the crumbling of bones and the splashing of blood beneath my feet.
Years ago, the mangled bodies of my brothers lay in this very spot.
My brothers who sacrificed every drop of their blood for this place they call home.
They lay in this spot where their last thought was of the woman.
The woman who stood in her balcony with a cup of tea.
The woman who compared the feisty breeze brushing against her face to the gentle touch of her lover on her rosy cheeks.
The woman whose eyes widened and smile brightened at every doorbell.
Little did the woman know that her beloved man was in the middle of an unending ocean of lost souls and misery,
with beads of blood standing of his forehead,
and his final breaths turning the air into ice.
Little did she know that the last word uttered by his bloody lip,
was her name which froze into ice
and hung above his lips,
just like the way her black, silky hair hung above his face.
The black, silky hair which gently brushed his lips which waited to be kissed.
Little did she know that the last song he sung were prayers which escaped his lips and rose high into sky,
just like the way birds urgently escape when their cage is wide open.
Little did she know that he won’t be coming home for Diwali.
Little did she know that she would receive a letter instead of his smile which lit up the nation.
.
.
.
As I walk this grey, cobble stoned path,
I look up into the sky and feel a heavy rain drop fall onto my cheek.
And I cannot help but smile and salute my brother,
who gave up his entire life, his family, his freedom for this piece of land.
This piece of land on which we are standing.
This piece of land which is standing because of him.
Copyright © Mirika Rayaprolu | Year Posted 2016
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