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. |
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. |