poetic I

A poem speaketh to its poet alone. Others might see the storm on the surface but only the poet can feel the currents underneath. And that is what i feel.

However, never underestimating the power of denial i post before you something i wrote a few days ago. Dont ask, why?




I talk to God, chewing on nothingness

Amidst maple leaves, apple trees and the sea

My feet stick to the sand

The sky is still grey, the waves are black

In the distance the horizon is a pulse, purple flash.

There hangs an obsidian mist though which I search for a hand,

This time not of clay


I feel the wind in my hair

I tell him how life’s like this, how…its unfair

He sits there laughing.

It seems he just don’t care


But then the sky is blue again

I run on the sand

Time stops and I see the dancing droplets, shapeless

Inside them, the obsidian mist, trapped.

They crash against my skin, almost musical as they land.

I can’t understand my mind, the way it plays, feels this life

The rain beats incessant, but I spot the tasteless from the salt

The apple tree, alight by lightning, falls

The maple leaves crumble. Then silence

Silence, it stays till a wave wipes away it all…

Amidst guitar by Carlos Varela…

Later world…


~ by Shashank Kumar on May 5, 2006.

One Response to “poetic I”

  1. hey ..im impressed by this… keep writing Mickey…ure gud wid leavin d reader impressed 🙂

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