Whirlwind Of My Innards Poem by Shreyansh Swarnakar

O whirlwind of my innards,
Where are you going?
O white raven, what douses that gloam in the panes of your windows?
O harbinger of change,
Are you keenly gazing at me as I moult; turn over a new leaf?

O dwindling hope,
Were you the beacon luring this ship towards a premature capsize?
O wishing well,
Can you still make a miracle happen?
O monsoon wind,
Can you Conjure up a cloud languid and tranquil?

That overt manifestation-too innocuous to be that of disdain,
With what essence of pertinence do you disclose it?
Marring my joy with that display of an atypical sad brow,
Blatantly, incisively apace I want you to prove it.


Throes of Sorrow, profound and eternal,
Stab me, nip me like shards of blowing ice
In this haven for hedonists, a new town
I'm indebted to, I revere and I despise.

The clouds are the only ones
That cry with me and for me.
Yes, the peculiar bitterness of vicarious bereavement,
Akin to pouring chilled water on a withered flower;
Exacerbating, culminating in a frosty overkill,
Trembling, sighing cold and moist like the wailing wind.

O pill of ecstasy,
Will you accept my gesture of gratitude with open arms,
And all my apologies for the thorn I've been in your flesh?
Or will you join hands with me and make me once again whole,
Bring back my smile, color to my pallid soul?