A Lost Spirit Poem by Nikhil Sharma

Everybody wants the auriferous sunshine,

Nobody prepares for the storm.

Walking on the glistening roads, catching light from the sun,
fading all hues surrounded by orbs,
in between the maund, he denied every oblation,
leading a life, surmounted by pale blobs.

Walls of pang blocking his freedom,
warmth of his seed clearing that delirium,
Beneath the secret wind-march, towards the grass on the ground,
he can't even hear, phonemic posy with all pother around.

Like a terpsichorean bone swaying, after having found its way
to the clime of skulls.
He sees a reckless fish clinging on a bog,
an ant filling a bright fissure,
a wandering bird glazing in the air,
when shaking waves between the spume of silence and serenity,
whimpered into his ears.

His shivering hands touched the cold blanket,
buried with weariness,
leaving blackness on its virtue,
breaking any stress.

Blazing moon residing above an oak,
engages him in the choir under fabrication,
thats how in a fanatical face,
his feelings were emblazoned.

He hates it when always a pensive crow follows him,
writes his memories repeatedly, with the ink of despair,
on the paper of agony,
while he is busy in building,
a moorage to superdeity.

He wants to settle within the arms of cherubim,
against the fiend's hammering,
under those impregnable emotions,
when his heart is shattering.

But wrath of his body, flowing through that diminitive skin,
is heating his blood, portraying the vulnerable state he is in.

In the end he shouted loud as he was drowning,
in the clink of compelling swamp,
but his language was unheard,
like nobody cared.

So far from the smiles back to the tears,

in the blink of an eye A Lost Spirit disappeared.