Saturday 1 August 2020

Chandrama Deshmukh, Poetry 2020, Featured Writer

An Abandoned Dance

We have directions
Of a lost map
That leads nowhere
A miraged universe
An omnipresent pause.

Someone once told me
You are your own prison
And since then
I see birds everywhere
Chasing delusions
Shrinking into coherence.

I tore my map
wrote poems on it
And made paper-boats
That glow in moonlight

My existence whirls
In an abandoned dance
And the ink-stained wings
Are drawing
Their own astral map

No comments:

Post a Comment