Devanshi Singh

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.

Springtime's End

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 

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

Oh, Mr.Carraway

What a proper old man.

Mr. Carraway is a happy man

Everybody around him adores him

Not a bad word to be said

Oh, Mr.Carraway

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. 

Lost Places

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.