As the night wraps itself in velvet silence
He unveils his serape of feigned happiness
The lugubrious reflection of light through the glass
half filled with his drunken musings of night
half filled with whirling wind of her memories
falls on the tear-stained pages clasping his insanity.
The words of heartaches etched relentlessly
He gives voice to the aphonic cries of the blues.
The windstorm rushes in through the broken windowpane
blowing away the inked poetries into many pieces
breaking the glass of survival into many fragments
destroying each spoken-unspoken word that never sufficed.
The dead and buried floats on the blood oozing out
Indelible suffering carved in the cuts of an esoteric man.
-Kritika Vashist
From the Soul to the nib of the Pen 