Piyush Pratik

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Dying Dirge

Foggy clouds of
smokes and stars suspended
in choking charades of blank
descend.
The brows of the milky way
fall into pieces
and jut out of your saffron smiles
Where firestorms rage, and
Sounds subdued materialise
I dissolute
with ease resolute
into the pyre
where but the purest
stand, the rest
blow into the warble
of sighs and cold suits.

When the day borders
its last line of blood
on the serrated swanks
A lone shadow trails the river bank
gazing into his own form
wondering when you would come
rising with each swell of tide
Abreast I pad the waters in delight
splattering colorless blood
Shall they meld in your likeness?

Where I disapparate
into an apparition
that merges with you.

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