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The God of my Day Past

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Sitting on a chair
Facing a window and a wall,
Leaning into my phone
Stuck to the socket on the wall.
The wall has bumps of paint
Like twinkle of the stars
Marring the black of my eyes
Like painless scars of a war.
The phone has names and numbers,
Senseless blots of colour,
Like the god of my day past
Whose now but memories shimmer.
I rejoice in the eternal festival
In the sorrow that the world begets
The belief of my celebrated god -
She who all moulds and forgets.
Revolving in your halo
Before this blank sits my heart
And breaks the silence with mute songs -
Why Cupid this while wronged his dart?

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Comments

  1. Unknown21 November 2018 at 09:26

    Nice

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  2. too much to say, too little to remember12 November 2019 at 08:44

    your poetry has a somewhat soothing aura to it. it resonates with the trained eye, not just because of its sheer melancholy, but the way you percieve the littlest details in seemingly monotonous things in daily life. keep writing, and don't, even for a second, think that good works go unnoticed.

    ReplyDelete

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