Threads of thoughts,
Knotted in unwanted bonds....
Eyes of stone gazing aimlessly
Lost lustre, dead and cold....
The choking butterfly,
Strangled in the spider's web.......
Torn wings, voiceless pain.....
Oh mutated soul,
Release the rein!
Overwhelmed skies, wary and grey,
Relentlessly shed tears.....
But smoking fires don't melt iron......
Yet the heart fears that touch......
The fragile bird of song,
Tethered to the chains of freedom.......
Ashes of darkness,
Rubbed in as a remainder,
Of that haunted daylight.....
Yet the chilling frost,
Was once some tender drops of dew.....
There were colors of smiles,
In the wounded rose....
Now lying mutilated.....
The scatter of petals,
Still whisper the unspoken.....
That hides behind the stolidity
Of this mystic statue.....
Wrinkled by the winds of time.....
Moulded in the cast,
Of a silent stoic.....
1 comment:
Stoic..the one who takes everything without emotions, without yielding to them, your poem lives up to the title it is unflinching in its imagery and capacity to experience pain. well done.
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