Return to the Abyss​

It lies in the abyss
Of endless melancholy
Of a depression deep.
Not in the clothes
Is the artist made
But in the smiles
That fade before they
Hit the face.
Slow, silent, deep:
That is how the pen writes,
Making slopes steep
And giving the wind its speed.
The hand moves
Loud and fast, shallow and light.
Over paper it makes
Continents and ships
Nations and people
The cry of the mosque and the church’s steeple.
On parchment it makes
Love.
And the slip of the dress
The tuck of a hand.
 
But without this abyss
Nothing lives
For in the depth of the depression
Lies a death that creates
A longing, an outlet.
Not in the classrooms
Of gilded curtains
Is a story born.
It is in the end that
The tale comes to life.
It is the artist that dies
So her pen might live
And tell of times
Gone and to come.
 
To the abyss I must return
To bring to life the words on paper
The thousand tales.
To the choking grief
I must go back
To the misery of loneliness
I must make love.
So you, young woman,
Can read the tale that I have spun.

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Divyanka Sharma
​is an Indian living in the US, who writes poetry and short fiction about her experiences in both countries. Divyanka’s work has been published, or is forthcoming, in the other side of hope, Making Connections, The Grief Diaries, Muse India, the Wire.in, Red Rose Thorns, among others. Divyanka lives in San Francisco.

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