By Kavya Mehulkumar Mehta are poets dumb — or just in love? to the world, they may seem dumb, but for them, love is inevitable. poems are reminders of love that can’t be forgotten, shan’t be forgotten. every piece of their muse is engraved in them. they are built of rotten love disguised as flowers — sweet to them. to the world, it may seem pointless, but poets — their world is their muse. By Kavya Mehulkumar Mehta

By Inayah Fathima Faeez Tomorrow looms unsure, muffled by the deep Thumbs twiddling, barriers never-ending, failure and nothing to reap At the shore lie the choices, imposing, leading to journeys impossible to see Below the crashing waters lies what might or might not be And it all comes down to the passion for a future so azure Love and laughter and smiles and support make success so easy to lure The turbulence retreats into the night, splashing out of the way Newborn vision

By Inayah Fathima Faeez Some part of us is cold and shrivelled, In a body of seemingly endless depth. Some part of us is heavy and dishevelled, Misery filling an unending breadth.  Some part of us is warm and blooming,  Alive with tenderness birthed from memory.  Some part of us is carefree and breathing, With warmth bandaging wounds of misery. Some part of us waits for an afternoon,  Where there are no holes of absence to sew. Some part of us waits for a full moon, Under whi

By Inayah Fathima Faeez I’m not allowed to go up to the attic anymore. It’s an ancient breath captured in the stagnant cold. I’m not allowed to disturb it. The staircase ripples beneath the moonlight. When I plod to the top, the ladder is inviting me to climb.  There’s an impenetrable chill that cascades upon me as I enter the room. It is tinged with shades of memories long forgotten. The first thing I see on the desk is a pocketbook, one that sighs as it opens.  He enters th

By Sydney L. Wensel No house of any God could baptize  The bellyache or bother out of me.  The ocean keeps calling though— Salt chuck sieving through this  Receptacle of misbehavior and flesh— Each of its five regions learning  A different element of my name—  Its texture, its wounding power,  Its prodigious and sovereign taste.  The vastness of my temple—  Imprinted with out-of-date  Directive scripture that details  How to become, and be—  Dwarfed in the saline waves, as I

By Sydney L. Wensel This hope becomes a bezoar— A thatch of impossible knots— In my aching, tangled tummy—  Threads of faith and foretaste  Coiling deep and low,  Hooked by your beckoning fingers  And come-hithering— Hungry fruit caught on a hand  Reading soft, secret notes. I wait for an evident invite,          stark words—           needs laid bare. For if there is a good night I would not go gently into, That night is yours—  Nude and Vitruvian,  I’d burn amongst the star