The possibility of feeling gauged and how,
succumbing to the tyranny of matchless moments.
The aisle that enchants you to an emotional march,
a feeling never taught or enriched within a convent.
Within a scar you agonize its existence,
doubting the actuality of its frivolous mastery.
Hideous as it may unfurl itself to,
thriving to the yearn of its sweet forgery.
One spur of moment I truly craved for,
the aura nullifying my unrealistic wants.
Extending itself with an singular gleam of joy,
within her limits, uncanny frown of bliss she grants.
Gratifying thoughts fill itself as a celebration,
flying high jovial in the silver cloud linings.
As the reality captivates an established fort,
the realization of a dream carves its own wings.
Realization of the trueness kicks in,
abolished and abandoned it laments.
Embracing yourself turns its option mode on,
pain in its loneliness feeds you bittersweet.
City seems a universe emptied on its own will,
scarcity of life empowers the emotional grunge.
Purpose of life tends to hang itself in thin air,
the tunnel and its hollowness seems taking a plunge.
As the flower of sunlight applause the calmness of a sea,
the passing of an hour to other seems a serene poem.
Writing itself on a beautiful piece of fragile mist,
the day has begun and the "miss" is just another mayhem.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
the passion of an hour to other seems a serene poem. Nice write. Thanks for sharing.
Thanks Ratnakar. Response Duly appreciated.