PSEUDO SONNET-13 (SHADOW OF HER MAN)

{ This is an experimental acrostic poem. This has 14 unmetred, non rhyming lines. }

⁯She walked down that deserted street... Alone.
Her face stern to suppress flow of tears.
And others smiling at her torn clothes,
Dark cut marks, rewards from that beastly man,
On her limbs and torso, rewards from him,
Who had killed her man, profaning her love.

On and on she walked, beastly eyes kept smiling.
Forbearing her from meeting those greedy eyes...
Her feet dragged her towards that graveyard,
Entombed, where her man was lying, clad in orchids.
Rakes of city crept behind her... She ran.

Merging with her shadow, someone gave her faith.
And walked with her arm in arm untill her death.
None except her felt- the shadow of her man.⁮

Comments

The Pantomimist

He never said a word where None would suffice. And really Words were luxuries, wrongfully Labeled as necessities Freedom who, freedom where Freedom when, he couldn't go Home, which home was it really !! He didn't say, he smiled sad This is your place, this is where You belong, they always said He never used words, he never Raised his voice, he only smiled sad Borders and limits and words Languages, cultures, Nations Religions, loyalties and societies Freedom from whom ? Freedom when ? The home was long lost among Those borders drawn and the earth Divided, for whom ?? His earth, his love His birthright. He never said a word. Kisses were perversely preferable than wars He made love to the earth in a very profane way Across the borders of the living and the dead Though he got murdered, did the pantomimist die !!!

SOLITAIRE-1

The lone poet walks Along that dusty avenue Lined with leafless trees And cold stones of a lonesome hue. Towards his deserted home He walks on and on On cold winter dusks- The hours of a weak dying sun. O' passers by! Stop And behold his lonesome gait, Maybe the lone remnants of His cruel raging fate. With the death of that weak Sun His lonesome day ends. Beneath those soils, warm, A peaceful night he spends. Nights pass o'er his grave A handful of solace they bring, Unkempt mementos; dark And lost remains of a shrewd spring...

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