Nobody to Love-A Poetic Tale

If only joy didn’t blossom out of empty promises, seasons didn’t rely stupendously on such silent vows and ‘acceptance’ didn’t necessitate blind submissions by a soul, love would find its way, even if the tempests of August hold everyone to their peril, but drowning us even if it feels good.

As the radiating skin of a lover tries to canvass through the ocean of comfort, an unlikely union of ‘dependence’ races across the plentiful spaces of life, carrying with it, anyone who ever breathed.

Those who did love once, and are left with songs without any rhythm, or diaries with soaked binders, knowing that the sheets could no longer hold onto those tears, are surreptitiously desiring love again.

But the melancholic dress, refined with staged stanzas about rejection imprinted at the epitome of its construct, impurities roaring like that of a newly mined diamond, seems to be worn by everyone that it’s become a dangerous compulsion—thoughts of ever being loved again.

And beauty is just a polished attire, making it impossible for the ordinary to see through the cracks. For tragedy and silence interweave compellingly, and each new desire about a companion is an untapped cluster of chaos that quietly crushes.

‘Nobody to love’ is what the current song empties itself unto, knitting the heart like there was nothing left of it. It takes a lifetime to get a grip of one's emotions, but only a moment to squander its tendrils, leaving it naked, led to rehearse the colors of regret unconditionally.

As beautiful as an evenly laced silk, perfumed with memories under a luminous gaze of evening clouds, are expressions which no longer last. Tired is the daily symphony of attraction and everything that once made us smile.

Dark blaze of prose then pulls itself to the room like it was your only lover, coloring every wall with residuals of guilt and stains of stagnation. Maybe to desire is to be destroyed incessantly.

And still, the new day has us filled with longings yet again. Why is it that we have such strong desires?

Words whirl whisperingly, trying to comfort but the dullness is just so elegant that nothing can even overpower its rays. To discover meanings, only to realize that it has narrated itself over and over again, yet the poor soul that could not fathom—rejection that has its stems rooted in the fabric of our lives.

To paint the shades of one's desires is overrated, so the commoner embraces the seasons of antagonism, with life and everything that once made promises.

But everything that ever made a tear evaporate and rain again or made the path seem narrow is only temporary. It’s the glowing piece of life that is grander, for us to live and create.

-Yogesh Chandra