My Pen's Run Out Of Ink

By Manjeer Mitra

My pen's run out of ink,

all my words left unsaid.

My thoughts left on standstill

and every tear I shed,

augments the tides; whose crests upon landing

thrash and tear down the walls of my heart

already weakened by the flaming darts of pretence,

ripping the open gashes of my soul apart.

Gone were the days of my bright yellow youth

whose summer sun is now painted the coldest carbon black.

Former gardens of hydrangeas in its glory days

now replaced with thickets and weeping willows waiting to be hacked.

The sweet smell of summer rain has been dethroned

by the presence of smoke and dust in a lifeless room

sealing my fate to the ashes that once contained my life

or whatever was of this obscured gloom.

Jolly bass lines, now muffled by

the reverberations of distant violins- ritardando in melody

left bitter by the demise of innocence,

as the saying goes: the slower the song, the greater the tragedy

By Manjeer Mitra