By: Sneha Subramanian Kanta
Sometimes stagnant ink dries;
And at others the paper is crumpled.
His eyes have stopped speaking now for long
Yet silences move across nudging distances unsaid.
Brinks of a brown coloured table
Hold two candles on a vintage stand.
Light seldom illuminates corners too dark
For those remain desolate, yet not completely distraught.
Under reflections of sprawling tree branches
Walls hold a song to themselves; of deep patterns.
Edges of words wear out in sighs profound
Sans noise and mire, against winds that tire.
Among realms of the past, he was my life-partner
At some other birth; believe, we being outcasts.
Ghettos of minds; in a world of outward light
two souls melt in consciousness lone; yet bright.
Verses of poetry
Nor paragraphs of prose
If love could be expressed too easy
What worldly worth would hold a rose?
Shackles of bounds and miles of distance
Hold firm in the heart with persistence
Melancholy inundated eyes; a storm
Each day feels being yet again born.
[Sneha Subramanian Kanta is a poet, writer, critic from Mumbai, India. She works as a lecturer of English in Mumbai. She is also the Assistant Editor of Rangoli, a journal published by Charnwood Arts, United Kingdom. Her poems have recently been selected for publication in an anthology of Indian poets in an anthology to be brought out by Hidden Books Press in Canada. Her research papers and works have been featured in several national and international anthologies and journals.]