By Neha Bhave
Beneath the veil where shadows linger long,
A muted cry reverberates, a fractured song.
No ear to catch the sorrow’s silent plea,
Awar waged in silence, yearning to be free.
Fingers trace the etchings on tender flesh,
A cartography of grief, where demons thresh.
Ghosts of memory stalk the night’s cold breath,
A soul adrift on the shore of death.
In the glass, an abyss stares back, stark
Eyes hollowed out by a world gone dark.
The sirens sing from caverns deep,
Promising slumber, an eternal, calm sleep.
Addiction’s embrace is a serpent’s coil,
A venom sweet, yet steeped in toil.
It quenches the fire, numbs the sting,
But leaves behind a shadowed wing.
The past, a spectre with talons sharp,
A spectre that carves, etches and harps
Each inhale, a mountain to ascend,
Each exhale, a harrowing descent, without end.
Suicidal musings, a darkened mask,
Promising solace in an infinite flask.
Yet the void beckons with a hollow grin,
A chasm where the light grows thin.
For those ensnared in despair’s cruel grip,
Know that your light, though dim, does slip.
Through the cracks, a dawn might break,
In the deepest dark, hope can still awake.
By Neha Bhave