As the turbulence of the mind
Burgeons in solitude
As the redolence of the past
Percolates the nostrils
I desire to see the bygone
But its lost in the mist
The urge to look forth
Is wrapped in fortune's fist.
I look with eyes open
But there is only darkness to direct
I feel with arms outstretched
But the shadows dance in zest
Then I hear the oriole singing
And I know that its just my mind ?
Burgeons in solitude
As the redolence of the past
Percolates the nostrils
I desire to see the bygone
But its lost in the mist
The urge to look forth
Is wrapped in fortune's fist.
I look with eyes open
But there is only darkness to direct
I feel with arms outstretched
But the shadows dance in zest
Then I hear the oriole singing
And I know that its just my mind ?
1 comment:
"Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.” - Carl Sandburg
There is a very fine line between intelligent poetry, and pseudo-intelligent poetry. Most modern poetry is annoyingly abstract: thus, it is indeed heartening to read a piece of verse that portrays the state of one's mind so unostentatiously. If my opinion matters to anything, then do keep writing; we need the return of proper troubadours of language.
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