Two weeks off poetry, while I walked through my world;
Contemplating as I look back, at my life in a twirl.
In my short search for meaning, I failed to come across,
one piece of memory to find what I lost.
So I’m back on this page a little out of focus,
with the colors from my mind mixed in a ruckus;
The ink from my veins coagulating into black;
The red velvet streams now viscous and slack.
And my quill that wont write, the words that have merged,
while I kill myself, trying, to print what is urged. By my little black heart.
And this chaotic, incoherent, poem on my wall,
I leave to remind the poets in their fall.
That a summer may come, and go just as slow,
and when love would leave naught but for us to woe,
these words though not written
will forever be carved,
in the depths of our hearts,
so used when she’s starved.
By: Viraj Belgaonkar