Meaningless

Meaningless short poem

Meaningless
I am
so is my identity
my dreams, my desires
my words, my sentience
and my destiny.

Few untamed lines
and undecipherable scribbles
I own,
which I try to decipher
or to give semantic to them,
and in this course I found,
it is like
finding one’s name,
written on sky
by the constellation of stars;
in the moonlight
holding moon in one hand.

In the meaningless world of mine

There are no dimensions,
no fathoms.
Things are not divided into
black and white,
there is only gray matter,
sprawled everywhere.

Time doesn’t move,
it stands still in a corner
and watches me
playing with the moments.

Thoughts are the only erudition
one can possess, achieve or acquire
Words are the only treasure.
There are no dreams
only reality prevails.

There is neither day nor night
neither dawn nor dusk
but, all of them
together
at a distance of few footsteps
from each other

There are neither friends
nor foe
no acquaintance, no relation
only solitude

and being a poet is not my vice there…

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Prashant Hayaran

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Meaningless I am so is my identity my dreams , my desires my words, my sentience and my destiny.Few untamed lines and undecipherable scribbles I own, which I try to decipher or to give semantic to them, and in this course I found, it is like finding one's name, written on sky by the constellation of stars; in the moonlight holding moon in one hand.In the meaningless world of mineThere are no dimensions, no fathoms. Things are not divided into black and white, there is only gray matter, sprawled everywhere.Time doesn't move, it stands still in a corner and watches me playing with the moments.Thoughts are the only erudition one can possess, achieve or acquire Words are the only treasure. There are no dreams only reality prevails.There is neither day nor night neither dawn nor dusk but, all of them together at a distance of few footsteps from each otherThere are neither friends nor foe no acquaintance, no relation only solitudeand being a poet is not my vice there... -Prashant :)
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Meaningless

Meaningless short poem

The shift to vernal tone starts a standoff with eyelashes. A sickle moon begins harpooning the stars. The unorthodox microlove brings out a ciliated canon of faithless interior. The gods were going to become weary of snowfall. Punctuating the silence,