Subimal Sinha-Roy Poet Free verse

The Sound Of Silence

The moist meadow of my heart 
dries in desolation like a desert,
as the clouds of parched passion  
make my overcast mind a morose sky. 

The halcyon horizon I call mine waits 
for the southern wind to blow 
with the surreal spectrum, 
bring from the fervent sparkling sky 
your sequined charisma below
to swathe my shades of blues.
In the surge of sequestered sandstorm 
my derelict desire drifts away 
from the anchorless dunes of the desert
where the evaporated oasis doesn’t remember
it existed once as an epitome of sanguinity.

Away from the wilderness
if you turn into an emerald tree 
in the far away fawn forest, 
the baroque boughs would reach out 
to the seraphic sky of yearning.  
For a while in their soothing shade 
I would like to repose,
hear the song the leaves would sing 
with the dainty drops of dancing rain. 

In the titular template of loneliness,
the spaced-out ethereal melody,
the dreamy transient tranquility 
of the entranced beginning, 
turns into lilting lyric
of the million steps I walk to reach you,
setting free the agonized heart
that quivers like the wasteland willow.
The configuration of the unyielding essence 
repudiates the catharsis reprisal.
At the edge of your receding shadow
I sense in the fossilized time 
the sound of silence.

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