Numb fingers and wrinkling skin;
Soaking in water for too long it seems.
The drops run over from back of ear;
From the lids they slither akin tear;
The bullets shoot on the limbs;
To endow with sopping up hinds;
I am wet; and the winds pierce sans pain;
Skin wriggles beneath the shroud of rain;
I lower the face and take the shots;
The hidden memory reverts to the knots.
And we were there under that sudden burst;
But our faces are dim; Reminiscence with rust;
Shuddering under the winds we laughed;
I was soaking but had you in my arms.
So much rain but we never got quenched;
And now these drops got me drenched.
The memory again blurs;
Shadows creep up in memory whirls;
But your shimmering voice, it still rings;
To my memory your smile still clings.
But everything else is blurred;
A grey hue to everything colored.
Back here; with thrashing rain I align;
Withered under the pour; I wait for sun to shine.
1 comment:
Numbing poetry, I must admit.
"The bullets shoot on the limbs;
I lower the face and take the shots"
I know where these come from. While doing poetry, one is crowded by so many thoughts, and one should know the knack to adapt the most appropriate piece, from the most relevant source, in the most original way.
I concede, you know that perfectly well.
The poem was monotonously perfect, from the first letter to the last syllable.
Every line lived. Every line was a poem in its own peculiar way.
I loved the use of "slither" with tears, "endow", "reverts" for cerebral knots, "blurs", "rings" for voice, "clings" for smile, and "withered" for the individual.
I loved it all.
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