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Adway Singh Poem
Buttercups withered outside my door,
their stems split dry—
blood leaks anyway,
like this is how it happens.
Every step cracks the glass,
it keeps breaking, slowly,
what spills out—
rain,
my eyes.
Maybe the answer isn’t me—
with the one who refused the ring.
How am I even crying today—
because there’s enough grief, or maybe
because I can’t grow roses.
I watch the lights go out; there is
no one in the house, the chance already gone,
“tant pis,” then.
Who even wants the formula—
to initiate, comply, and carry it all,
as if it takes courage just to care
for her body, her breathing, her eyes.
I practised courage
in rooms that do not exist;
dust knows the lines well.
So, I guess they mean it when they say
“A rolling stone gathers no moss.”
“Stay still,” they say.
Nectar from too many flowers has given her
a halo around her head, a radiance
clinging to her skin—
is that intoxicating—
or just carnal desire,
overused?
Copyright © Adway Singh | Year Posted 2026
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Details |
Adway Singh Poem
Its way of being salient-
And so picturesque with bloodstains
On its edges.
Its way of being so united-
And so whole with fragments
In its core.
Its way of being so innocent-
And so angelic with rust feeding
On its being.
Its way of being so joyous-
And so blissful with despondency eating
At its soul.
With flame to it,
And such spirit to it, there’s-
Much acedia thriving.
With humility to it,
And such amity, there’s-
Much superbia thriving.
With satisfaction to it,
And much contentment, there’s-
Much avaritia thriving
With candour to it,
And much modesty, there’s
Much calliditas thriving.
Its fumes, when do vanish-
They do vanish wholly to
show the nymph it is.
Its tenderness, when does vanish-
It does vanish wholly to
show the scales there are.
Its carnality, when does vanish-
It does vanish wholly to
Show the bane over the wine…
Copyright © Adway Singh | Year Posted 2026
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Details |
Adway Singh Poem
lFair orphan of the sky,
Yet another love meant for goodbye,
What light do you shine with,
Is it true what they say-
Burglar of men’s hearts?
To what God must I pray,
For relief from this ailment, say?
You might never return my heart,
And keep it yours to use-
But ‘tis not a crime, is it?
Hours fly by as I muse,
With speech, love I confuse,
Not more than a smile escaped,
And you smiled but I read,
All that you would never have wanted
My psyche, rife with dread,
In you, my soul what bliss it read,
Bliss of hope, bliss of love,
While you laughed as you looked at the sky,
And let me live my perpetual lie.
Copyright © Adway Singh | Year Posted 2026
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