Standing in the choir of evil spheres
The verse in my brain looms darkness.
I follow the voice,
Like the sound that haunts light,
And a handful of stories die within me.
The ink that bleeds from one’s heart,
The light that lurks in the dark,
The unknown harmony that the birds would chirp,
Hold the pleasure of running after a kite.
The shackle of memory holds the time,
Mirrors the shades of desire that pervaded the eyes,
Like the alluring words of the three witches.
Pretense hangs from the citizens’ lips,
The words die like a dumb’s feeling,
Tied to the chair avoiding infinite space,
The smoke unfolds its coil-like somber cloud.
Still, this hollow city would keep your dream,
Like the flowers blooming in the trashes.
This diary holds my rusted words,
Writes how the room smells of your absence.
And the algae crawl into these pages,
Making the webs with the drifting words,
And soak the pages of this diary
With increasing numbness.
Jyotirmoy Sil, from Kolkata, is a dilettante poet. Presently he is a doctoral research student in the department of English of Aliah University, Kolkata. His poems have been published in Muse India journal and Madras Courier.