No more of music, no more of rhyme,
Lost in the vicious circle of time,
So much for ego, so much for pride,
The poet in me has died.
...
Drowning in shades of grey
I anticipate
Walls with ears,
Eyes, big mouths,
...
It comes down like a soothing balm
To wash away unpleasant memories
And remind of pleasant ones
Deep down a soar heart
...
As strangers we met
To make love and separate
In dark rooms with no walls
Do you see me in her eyes
...
Gayatri Lakhiani Chawla is a french teacher and writer from Mumbai. She received a M.Com in Commerce from Bombay University and a French degree from Alliance Français de Bombay. Her keen interests are writing poetry and her poems have been published in periodicals: ‘The Indian P.E.N.’, ‘The Brown Critique’ and ‘The Journal of the Poetry Society (India) ’.Currently she is working on a collection of short stories)
The Poet That Was
No more of music, no more of rhyme,
Lost in the vicious circle of time,
So much for ego, so much for pride,
The poet in me has died.
Nothing seems perfect, nor perfectly right,
No more do I look at stars at night.
Sadness in these eyes that open wide
The poet in me has died.
Continuity in that incomplete line
Drowned away in laughter and wine,
Somewhere there is a sense of fear,
The end, the end is at last here,
The pen, the paper, the ink has dried,
The poet in me has died.