My tasteless poetry-part 2

My poetry, my poetry, why do you leave me when you are the only thing I have.

My heart is a heavy attire, made of a thin crystal vase that has been left empty for as long as it remembers, and the coatings on it are young, deeply serene but sored and motionless.

And the gloomy silk of each evening has surrendered in the oblivion of its silence—holding tightly onto the loose ends of itself, and the depressed sun lingers over its skin, a tired, drowsy look at the sleepy corridors, as a soft yet cataclysmic shade of rainbow fills the twilight sky, dragging me to its picturesque, the colors of me that will imminently leave, just like you, my poetry.

As I’m dragged by the selfless yet magnificent, glorious, and wondrous cloud, I leaped towards the broken ends of my pencil, in hope of holding you again my poetry, but you’ve already left.

And now, the songs over the radio are filled with a dense flavor of melancholia, the usual night sky is filled with fragments of falling stars, frail and so few like it were the funeral of a fellow poet.

Seasons of prolonged emptiness, the leaves are sprayed with a grotesque paint of dimness, incomprehensible, and the stems are crying red, lost, and lamented by misery, as the entire forest weeps incessantly, all in hope for that unfinished stanza at the end of the long, unending path.

But is there any? My poetry, please tell me!

And brokenness is overrated, just have a brief stare into my eyes and you shall know, my poetry.

How I long for you, with just a life that I so preciously hold onto. But you, my poetry, you live a thousand and still find a mesmerizing tune in every one of them. Your deep and mystic face, I could at any time lean unto, and be filled with a metaphysical, most sincere glow on my face.

I still remember you looking at me, those dreamy eyes filled with a sense of doubt that I’d abandon you, but I have never, I will never, my poetry.

My poetry, my poetry, where is your scent, your touch, and your magic when I need you the most.

Was it because everyone around me found you tasteless every time I held my lavender brushed pen to get lost with you and into you?

And yes, they still do that, so much that it pleases them to the fastidious mind.

But you, my only poetry, you are immortal, the dust of your breath feels like a perpetual touch with freedom, effervescent and unconditional, and your beats intertwined with life create a lyrical fire, an undying symphony of attraction, and your long descriptive verses spark a melodious pulse of romanticism that nobody can ever extinguish.

My poetry, my poetry, please don’t be hurt by their words because they do not know, they do not know.

-Yogesh Chandra