top of page

Notes of a slipping soul


Priyanshi Sharma

They don't know the depth of a preserved pain hid in a chest like a pickle,

it turns sour every passing season

and I think of the silhouettes of those on the dilapidated alley

where they would meet how many would they become two or four? or one

and the zest of orange lingers on the end of my tongue

like I would wail any second or gulp it down in the other

thinking of the childhood innocence of welcoming your sibling

as they return from a long ride, to hop on the backseat

to breathe in the freshness of an October evening

It smells like smoke

like air mingling with the dust on stagnant leaves

the ones left, the ones fallen

the air smells sweet

Too sweet perhaps as if seducing me of the sweetness that exists outside

while dust settles on my lungs

debarring it of breath

Raindrops stuck on leaves,

inside flowers

putting blemishes on them as if infecting their lives

the morning holds a new stiller silence

chattering chaos heard but distant

The sky turns from dark to deep sea blue

and now to the sea itself

slowly I see its reflection on the white marble

a blue light

as if the torch bearer of the sun

I think, I believe and then I yield

the sun sheds no warmth

no light transcends a darkness denuded prevails within me

like the winter dew quivering with flakes

it paralyses my insides,

a numb me thus lain

I wish believing was the only necessity

my reason soughing anywhere except within.

Priyanshi Sharma is a 19 year old,who although claims to love poetry and writing,only occasionally delves into writing them when her thoughts cannot but spill all over and encompass her mind completely. You will mostly, find her looking at abstract unachievable art while she staggers on her daily schedule or just listening to piano playlists while waiting for autumn to fall.

Priyanshi Sharma
Priyanshi Sharma
Share on:
You might also like:

Detail, missed

For the Endangered

bottom of page