They looked at me. Pleaded me
to never write about them
until they read the lines.

I am still waiting
since many years
like a word
formed with letters
of a strange language;
it battled
shied away like a bird
its feathers carried traces of blood.

I have ceased to become the word
but I sense it wanders quietly
in the woods
longing to write the lines
about them.

© supratik 2023
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critique and comments welcome.
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Beautiful, Sir.


intriguing. i’ve often wondered if Poetry is Art that plays sick games with us. not something that helps us at all, we have to be in complete control of what we write otherwise we become part of this Art’s game. this realization surprised me and for a while now i try to focus on prose more, only to find the same games there too. it’s all about control not to get carried away, it’s all about focus and few of the masterpieces out there seem to have been examples of the human intellect controlling words and lines. thanks for the… Read more »

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