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Ayush Shrivastava Poem
My heart is a plume renditioning over a lyre, my soul.
You are but the fume of frozen fire, on parole.
I am a scintillating bud of ray in the moon,
You are a void sphere on spree to slay and prune.
Falling stars from the sanctum of my palanquin,
it is you who crumbled my bosom, not my kin.
No, not my kin, neither my obedience nor fidelity
Neither was it my lack of acceptance for reality.
Bereft of feathers, before the angel could descen'
Wings melted, before could fly close to the sun!!
Larceny of thoughts from the dejected saint
Pilfering words from the glum and gothic acquaint
Are these the words of my order, my state
or am i paraphrasing into a purloined fate!
My angel, a banshee of wilderness, my domain,
It is all dropped dead, she howls, howls in vain.
Your love holds me 'gainst your acquired hate
The genteel heart of yours is yet the bait
I see the musings of my scars
I hear the laments of my stars
My duty is to plant a rose and leave it to be
But them plundering it, how can that i see?
I pledged my honor and being to you
Yet this rancour for me, it grew
My submissive love: my Achilles' heel
Feebleness, I wish i could conceal
The bird has slept eternally in it's ashes, pruned
It's song no longer heard, tears gone, swooned
A rented life, from my mere existence
What will they rob from this futile persistence.
Copyright © Ayush Shrivastava | Year Posted 2023
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