Best Poems Written by Prakhya Agarwal

Below are the all-time best Prakhya Agarwal poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Details | Prakhya Agarwal Poem

Beyond The Thunder

The roaring sound from above,
Like my thoughts are not silent anymore.
They roar, they shout, they scream,
As if they want to break free
From the agony they carry,
As though it were meant to stay forever.

Yeah...
It's been a long time since that season,
When they chose their way
To turn into waves
In the cold breeze,
To pour from their scars
Like some old Disney story.

But stories always found their sunshine,
While these clouds still wander.
The rain keeps falling,
Carrying pieces of yesterday,
And every drop that touches the earth
Whispers a name I tried to forget.

But yeah,
Beyond this thunder,
There is always a steady sky.
Perhaps these waves are not meant
To drown me,
Only to teach me
How to return to the shore.

Copyright © Prakhya Agarwal | Year Posted 2026


Details | Prakhya Agarwal Poem

Winter Welcome

Winter kisses the doorstep
with a quiet smile in icy depths;
branches bow low, as if nodding my return,
while frost tiptoes on the windows.
Smoke curls like an embrace—
I breathe it in: warm welcome Home .

Copyright © Prakhya Agarwal | Year Posted 2026

Details | Prakhya Agarwal Poem

The Canvases Speak

The air is thick with dust and whispers,
shadows stretch like long-forgotten hands.
In the art room, the canvases wait—
some bold, some broken, all unwilling to be silent.

A sunset canvas shouts first,
its colours bleeding, desperate—
“I was fire once! I burned the sky!
Now I am nothing but fading light.”

A storm looms beside it, violent, raw,
its waves clawing at the frame.
"I rage, I roar, yet I am trapped!"
"Who will sail my waters? Who will drown in my night?"

An old woman watches from another painting,
her eyes hollow, lips pursed in secret.
"They painted my smile, but not my sorrow."
"Look deeper—do you see me now?"

And then, in the corner—unfinished, trembling—
a blank canvas breathes in the silence.
Half-formed figures whisper in the mist of paint.
“I am not yet. I am becoming.”

The room shudders, the colours pulse,
stories scream from their frames,
aching to be seen, desperate to be heard—
but will you listen?

Copyright © Prakhya Agarwal | Year Posted 2026

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