Tenebrous

Tenebrous

Written by Ayush Banerjee


I sit near the quiet lake

where my words, no longer afraid 

of a quicksand pit inside my brain,

bathe in the waters; 

wherein lay a feeble boat 

and a weary sailor’s body,

that has withheld the secrets

of letters, sealed inside old wine bottles,

from the tornados of time. 

The water that’d been cursed

held onto his lover’s reflection tight,

for all he could do was admire her

from far above in the sky. 

The ideas,

they try to blend in 

with the clear skies of autumn. 

I feel the heaviness of the darker clouds

slowly engulfing the skies,

shadowing my free-spirited dream. 

Nostrils that have always cherished

the alluring petrichor

now rests with the soothing odour

of the alluvium deposited near the shore. 

Thoughts appear to me,

swollen and detached like patches of clouds,

seeking empty skies

where lies beauty in the dull. 

The skies that always dreamt

in shades of vermillion and blue,

wrapped with laces of ochre,

remain as lonely as the barren tree. 

The skin appears to me as a road-

It seeks comfort from flowers of fall,

draping a garland of fortitude

around those weary paths

that have only heard shrill horns. 

It bears the atrocious weight of scars

resembling tire tracks and footprints;

the crumbling road, like my skin,

that has grown through pain

only longs to sense the touch

that will leave no more craters of vulnerability,

for it has run out of empty spaces

to shed its tears, lost in servitude. 

Eyes,

dominated by the mind’s perception

and what it thinks;

they’ve seen blood

rolling down the cheek

and there,

for the first time,

they wished to be able to cry,

they’ve tasted the pain

from the blues and the black

and they’ve learnt an obscure knowledge

about an abiding separation 

by a wall covered with flesh,

that keeps them at bay. 

The eyes,

they can no longer hold their pain

they want to live

in the comfort of each other. 

I sit near the quiet lake

that has heard whispers of

the tongue that have gone sour

with the taste of nicotine. 

Beheaded the essence of life

through the painless execution

by the starving guillotine,

that has seen my body

plead for its own freedom

for it can take no more. 

The walls of which are crumbling down,

unlike the mind that has gone numb;

I wish I could release you

and let you breathe

for you detest clinging onto my soul,

for you long to live on your own,

as I am too shallow for your growth. 


Ayush Banerjee
Ayush Banerjee

A poetry connoisseur, Ayush writes what he sees, experiences, and believes. 

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