Ichor
They flow,
Insipid and slow,
Like infinite moments
of wistful longing.
Like clasped fingers
that disentangle
at Bon-voyage.
Like old sand-glass
That fails to catch
irrevocable times.
They merge
Once in a while,
In a moment of
epiphany, as two
droplets fall for
each other,
perchance.
They reflect a
blameless, radical
glow of white,
as they slowly hide
a blurred, blurred world,
Beyond the veil of
untold gray.
Beyond an unmade dream
That grows steadily
In an intrepid exuberance.
That slows the inane life
You live,
For long-stretching moments
As you skip
a heart-beat or two.
And you forget
what happens to the
rained city-night that
remains behind a
mellow curtain of
nameless grace.
Copyright © Prakriti Palchoudhury | Year Posted 2015
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment