It is a dream I do not remember But remember all the same Like those faces I desire Without knowing their name As if in the grand scheme of things Wherein a million stories unfold I am just a chapter Of a young man who grew old
These oceans which are open These skies which are blind These forests which aren’t silent These mountains sans a mind Are mine to behold and break To bind and to find For the similes to be kept never similar And metaphors ever one of a kind
You can call my claims childish Or let my words make you weep When you see the vacuum in my voice Hover upon my lower lip Where the broken wind balances Those desires and despair And life in its likeliest form Is heartbeat at the end of a hair
If only I could myself see and show What I have lost in my pursuit to know The allegories of living Without wanting to grow Alas, I have my own Reason to bear the blame: For to the man who shall leave no footprints The dust is all the same
I find poetry as a gentle reminder, a medium to relay and dwell upon all things considerate people find inconsiderate. Poetry as an art is akin to a lamp or a magnifying glass. It trails volumes of meaning behind obscure, vague words. I have been writing for a time now, and intend to do so for the time to come. And hopefully, hopefully, hope that one day, someday, a person stumbling across this veil of words, find it alluring enough to shift aside the curtain and peer, into the eyes of the naked truth which sways with the wind of reason. If you have any thoughts, it would be my pleasure to know them, if you don't then it would be a pleasure to not. Be my guest. This feast of words is for you.
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It skipped my mind to comment on this exquisite piece.
This is one of your many poems that, I firmly believe, belongs to a English Literature textbook. It holds so much in just a few stanzas, and leaves the reader in a euphoric state by the end of it (if that makes sense). Aspiring writers should study it for its message and style, seriously. There’s a dearth of good literature in these times.
Thank you very much, Pragya, for your ever encouraging presence and compliments. It means a lot to have as good a writer as you acknowledge my work and hold it to such high esteem. Always indebted. 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻 Although I must add that they truly pale when in comparison with your work.
THE HUMAN ANVIL 
Beautiful!
“I am just a chapter
Of a young man who grew old”
those lines made me stop and think
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Thank you, Mitchel… Glad you could connect to the poem🙏🏻
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It skipped my mind to comment on this exquisite piece.
This is one of your many poems that, I firmly believe, belongs to a English Literature textbook. It holds so much in just a few stanzas, and leaves the reader in a euphoric state by the end of it (if that makes sense). Aspiring writers should study it for its message and style, seriously. There’s a dearth of good literature in these times.
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Thank you very much, Pragya, for your ever encouraging presence and compliments. It means a lot to have as good a writer as you acknowledge my work and hold it to such high esteem. Always indebted. 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻 Although I must add that they truly pale when in comparison with your work.
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Also, the title is itself praise-worthy, and apt.
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Glad you liked it😄
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Also, the alliteration work in third stanza is of a very high standard.
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You are far too gracious… Thank You 🙏🙏🙏
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I really like your poem! This line in particular:
I am just a chapter
Of a young man who grew old
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Thank you very much, sir. Glad you liked the poem 🙏🏻😊
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You are very welcome!
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