The fading ink of sorrow, etches deep,
inkwells dry, brittle quills fall asleep.
The page will not be scripted,
all the damage done has drifted,
into the ether of the sage.
In recognition of "Erase My Existence" by Ink Express. Great read!
Upon an uneven pillar stands an unending struggle, coursing through blood, travelling from one generation to the nex
Through the veil of dawn's mist, weary feet follow the jhum trails, while the ceaseless hymn of waterfalls etches the story of survival into the face of time.
The shadow-laden forest remains their unwavering companion.
Across the mountains, evening fires glow.
With burdens bending their shoulders, they make their way home-yet the weight never leaves them.
The flames die away, and the struggle is swallowed by the weary silence of night.
Within the humble home of the uneven pillar, dreams quietly awaken.
Before the first light, in the deepest darkness, the mountains sow the seeds of an unborn tomorrow, as if each dawn could coax tender shoots from the heart of stone.
Night yields at last.
The path is lit once more, the mist parts, and daylight returns.
Though marked by wounds, the footsteps never falter.
In the silent passing of hands from one generation to another, the same burden endures.
After countless seasons, through silence, storms, and time itself, the uneven pillar still stands.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
morning frost etches promises
on every windowpane~
a year unwritten,
white as snowfall,
quiet as the hush
between breaths.
dreamers and poets~
optimists scribbling hope
with numb fingers,
believing the cold
will thaw into something
we dare to name.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
God gathers
the wind like
loose parchment,
etches His will
in the language
of leaves,
sends it
skimming
across wheat fields,
bending
the backs
of kings and
beggars alike.
No envelope seals His word~
just the
sigh of pines,
the shudder of shutters~
a breath
against your neck
when you least expect
to be answered.
Midnight.
Frost etches its score
on every windowpane.
Snowflakes land
with the hush of a page
turned in an old book.
Inside,
radiators hum an old hymn,
off-key,
while the tree stands
mute
in its tinsel robe.
Upstairs,
a child turns in her sleep
dreaming of
sugarplums and sleds.
The tree exhales pine,
needles brushing
the wrapped promises below.
Ornaments sway on their hooks~
tiny bells without tongues.
The fireplace crackles a low,
steady bassline
under murmured
verses of gratitude.
Footsteps soften in the hall,
carrying cocoa,
carrying sleep.
The house settles deeper into the hush.
Christmas Eve leans in,
holding its breath
between the notes.
We carry it
not because we choose to—
but because the body keeps its archives,
and the mind, its quiet drawers.
A laugh that once saved us,
a silence that once harmed us—
they follow like old weather,
patterns the sky has not forgotten.
We bring it
because the child never truly leaves.
They sit within the ribcage,
knees drawn up,
listening for familiar storms.
We bring it
because love learned early
etches itself deep,
and fear twice as deep.
Both wait for the world
to rhyme with their memory.
We bring it
so that the adult may meet the child
in the long corridor of years—
not to scold,
but to hold,
to say,
You survived. I’m here now.
And when that meeting happens,
the past loosens its grip—
not vanished,
but finally understood.
One day I will speak to you,
I’ll tell you contents of my heart,
I will tell you how I long for you.
I will speak my thoughts plain and flat.
I will gather the courage to be real,
and shape my wish into words of truth.
Your smile will be my sunrise feel,
your eyes the stars shiny and smooth.
I will tell you how each passing day
Etches you across my thoughts’ scroll.
I will let gentle winds of love to sway
With my voice to your waiting soul.
One day, beneath a sky of promise,
I will confess my love to you,
and ask if you will walk beside me,
from this moment into forever.
Just one day under the scorching sun,
I will face you eyeball to eyeball
Hand you my life to conquer and run
Just if you will heed to my call
And if you say yes to me that day
My name and belongings will be yours
I will give my heart and life away
In those trusted hands of yours
(Dedicated to JN.)
Why do someone kisses each other
Closes their eyes?
It's because the eyes not really see
It's the mind that really see
The good moments that register.
The mind is like a camera
Only those beautiful experiences
Are meant to be recorded and film.
When the time of dull and remembrance,
Someone able to recall and see those moments,
The past behind and ponder each unforgettable
Best encounter that you have in your life.
Whether love or life experiences is part of story.
Everyone has etches of making a history,
Whether simple, complex and riddle script,
This is life itself that we can never forget
For the rest of our life whether here or never.
A declaration of love etches
itself deep into a bed of soft sandstone.
The kind that's hastily scratched on
with nothing more than a stone
found on the nearby ground.
The letters are shaky, imperfect
but the heart that binds them is true.
Some initials are old, some much younger
yet all possess the flair of emotion that their carvers had.
Inevitably, they will be washed away
by wind or by water, nothing lasts,
not even the wall which they are etched onto
but in the moment, there was love.
receding like the tide
subtle and graceful
time etches in memory
while back on the shore
voices at a distance
are the mere background noise
of a life i left behind
and i feel complete
AP: 3rd place 2025, Honorable Mention 2025
Thinking back on old times.
We don't remember days, we remember moments.
Each fleeting second etches it's mark on our hearts.
Whispers of laughter and tears softly linger, never apart.
Memories bloom eternally in the garden of our past.
Stay here with me, where time holds no sway.
In the embrace for our cherished moments, we'll never stray.
Naked awareness
seeks to clothe itself with love
and so descends in this realm.
Bliss effervescence
caused when pheromones mingle
etches its scent in the void.
5/4/2024, Vaishali, Bihar
In a society where I live,
Pride is a class identity,
And pain is a class identity again.
The color of people is cast
Into white, brown, and black,
All shades of the same soil.
People born as kings, servants, or watchdogs.
I live in a village of divided lands—
Bhumihar fields, Mallah shores, Nunia, Teli, Sonar,
Brahman, Rajput, split like crops on the farm.
I belong to the Nai—
A class of servants, kings, and watchdogs, all in one.
The air hums with stories of the Nanda Dynasty,
Pride wrapped around our class like armor.
Yet, sorrow lingers in the gaze of those
Whose eyes are heavy with dirtied dreams.
I live in a society where identity is seen
In color, cloth, and words—
Old roots buried deep like the broken tree
By Abhishek Pushkarini,
Which falls, like us, at the feet of the upper class.
My tearful words often seem lost,
As each passing day etches more pain into hearts.
But these small hands carry the strength to resist
The cruel stares of a classed society.
In a society where I live,
Pride is a class identity.
Green grass is fading...
Autumn etches its coming...
Waving leaves soon fall...
With empty capacious containers
the living entities
arrive arrogant
and depart desolate,
in between turn into
greed slaves to snatch
the unearned fortune,
getting sucked spellbound
within abyss of temptation.
In the inferno of
corporeal passion temporal,
the frenetic flare
laced by luring lust
debases the fervent feeling
of platonic pining,
but in blooming love
it can sparkle sublime
with the patina of penchant.
The chase of mirage
in the deceptive ego desert
etches the fragile footprints
of delusive dominance
with sandstorm trajectory,
but the squall of strife
over the dune of dwindled life
subsides in the inner space
of latent love configured
in the conceded cauldron
of self-less surrender.
In the blazing realm
of connived conflict
sane senses of sobriety
turn into cinder,
flaming the fiber of prudence,
but the shower of sagacity,
spurting from love fountain
with divine flamboyance
douses the fire of disdain
and
with the allayed ashes
fabricates the framework
of cordially congruent
epitome of existence.
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