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an outlet for emerging arts
Devanshi Singh is from Pune, Maharashtra, India. She writes poetry, typically using elements of nature to describe everyday experiences, and descriptive prose and short stories. She is passionate about classic literature and astronomy, of which elements can be found in her work.
I don't find beauty in this place anymore
Maybe it's just in my head
But the color's seeped out
The sky's not blue anymore
The strain of life is done
And I'm left by a river long dried
Wondering where I got lost.
All the lovely summers
Spent running carefree in the winds
Shaded underneath guarded trees
Safe from restless memories.
How did we not realize
That one day this feeling will be lost?
Falling to the Earth like tangerine autumn leaves
Waiting for new leaves to come in
Just a dead tree standing by dead things
Dead dreams and dead thoughts
Dead people and dead hopes
Buried safely underneath winter snow.
Tears fall like raindrops
Quick, quick, fall into the Earth
Like thunder a strangled wail escapes me
An ode to the life I lived before
It's a horrible cold realization
That spring won't come again
With new leaves promising new things
And laughs carried on the lively wind
Drunk on the sweetness of the day
Sobered by the music of the night
And life and joy and ecstasy.
Instead I wake up each dawn
Only to feel dead again
Only living vicariously through memories
Of days long gone lost in the universe
Lost with the ghost winds
Of springtime's end.
Mr. Carraway is a happy man
Who works all day in a lonely niche
And gets drunk at night on cheap whiskey
Oh, Mr. Carraway
What a merry old man.
Mr.Carraway is a happy man
Who greets his neighbours
And smiles at the children
What a proper old man.
Mr. Carraway is a happy man
Everybody around him adores him
Not a bad word to be said
What an admired old man.
Merry, proper, admired he is
But lonely, sad, and drunk too
And no one knows what he does all day
Shut up in his room.
And no one knew how long it'd been
Since he fasted the noose to his neck
But they found him all black and blue
All alone in his room.
Mr. Carraway was a happy man
Until he snuffed his own light out
Because no one knew what went on
In that proper old mind of his
Oh, Mr. Carraway
What a sad old man.
It's all those arcane things that make life worth living. Sitting on the windowsill at 3am, the sound of the wind chasing the cars on the highway, stirring something up inside of you, making you want to run, run, run to hidden places. To a place where the stars shine brighter than they do elsewhere, putting on the most pompous show, drowning out the humble light of the moon. The same moon that highlights the waves of a wrathful sea breaking over the deserted shore. With winds from places so far away, so foreign that your imagination can't conjure up the image. With winds rousing up turbulent storms, rain and thunder screaming together, generating the perfect cacophony, over lost valleys and uncharted mountains. It's the lost places that make life worth living. Places you only hope to find, someday, stumbling upon another mystery of nature. It's in these lost places, where you hope to fall in love with this world all over again.
Night air rushes through the windows left open. The curtains billow, allowing sweet, cold air to make its way in. It's the wind that heals. That howls it's sweet song, drowning out the garish day and sings everything to sleep.
Everything and everyone seems to be asleep. But I lie awake, with the night creatures prowling about. After all, it seems a shame to slip into the lands of dreams, when the starts and moon shine with all their might, creating a dream like state. Who will drink in all this beauty if I go to sleep? Who will lie with the starts, thoughts rushing like the shooting starts above? Who will dream of the worlds out there in the universe, never to be seen in this lifetime, but to be dreamt of, with eyes wide open, twinkling like stars on the ground?
The sounds of night fill the air. And I wonder if anyone knows what creatures makes these sounds? Where do they disappear to in the daylight, letting their melodies fade with the night? Do they fade away into the land of darkness, along with the stars and the wind and the sweet, sweet harmony they make together? In spite of the music of the night, a beautiful silence blankets the sleeping world. I cherish the silence because no one else will.
A sigh leaves me, mingling with the wind rushing in and out, playing games with sleeping flowers, making the sway to it's gentle music. It rushes to the trees, running through the abodes made there by creatures of the day. The rambunctious wind shakes the poor leaves, making some fall to the ground. And then if becomes gentle, catching the fallen leaves, gently laying them to rest on the ground. It continues running about, while I watch the game with childlike glee. And unknowingly, the stars and the wind and the creatures and their music lulls me into sleep, washing out my worries and troubles, singing their sweet lullaby all night long.
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