It didn’t burn like my ambitions did,
it didn’t break the way ideals always do,
just vanished, like an angel in the clouds,
with wings made of white nothingness
and the feather it dropped is probably fantasy
as on the vestiges of my loss grew tendrils of
a few insipid dreams, fragile as a tentative faith.
The bliss I search now is not in ignorance,
or despite the despotic logic that refutes
and mocks, it’s not in my dreamy escapades.
With an unfounded resolve, I delve deeper
into the excavations of the lost cities of innocence.
Nothing deters me, not the aches of a lost limb,
of the lost wing that once carried a purpose, of life.
At the end or the beginning of another origin
a reverberating voice speaks, to me,
speaks like me, rising without pain
from the ocean within, piercing the
a stone that is now the rational heart.
Not everything is lost, it echoes
in everything you write and as long as you do,
innocence now reincarnated as hope.
Devika Mathur, a poetess who lives in India and writes to spill out her anxiety. Her works have been published in Visual Verse, Mad Swirl, Subterranean Blue Poetry, Two drops of ink, Sudden Denouement, Free verse Revolution, Blue pepper among various others.
She is a contributing writer for Sudden Denouement and Blood into Ink magazines. Her work has been published in an anthology "all the lonely people" among various others brilliant writers.
Her writings can be read at https://myvaliantsoulsblog.wordpress.com/