Mar 11, 2010

inside me is pain;
Flowering like lichen,
over a dead body
bereft of a face,
stolen of a name
rooted deeply in the gravels
of an edgeless shore
Seeking showers;
of an untimely rain
inflicted by derision
in the charcoals of time
turning memories into sonnets
that refuse to be recited


Amiya chatterjee said...

Beautiful poem

Amiya chatterjee said...

Love that phrase:
Turning memories into sonnets.

Love your Blog NOW