My gallery Has Ended
In upper part of my body
A cognitive bell rings
From a dial-up connection of live wires;
The modem is working JUST
To repeatedly provide the facsimile of
Barren and bald paths;
Inner lumbering of daily freight
Coiling, clutching upward;
There is no vivacity
The vital force has parasited
How I inhale life?
My days and nights are bolted
Inside a brain cell,
My voice has held back;
Now it lays a plan to brawl my soul;
Residing in my own skull
It dictates notes imitating my tone,
If I could disintegrate my recall;
As my shadow has left me
There remains Just I, me and myself,
None is willing to be with me
Why is my brain, a black hole?
How could it not be a universe?
I have a constellation of migraine, tablets
Syringe, backache and insomnia,
Dream has become a dead pattern,
As worn out as fossil led glow;
Everything has become identical
Except the weight of consequence
That has variations of endurance;
As I go through perdition
My imbalance will be rectified,
And after allotted time
My gallery will end,
Then you can hang my art
And me on the wall
The Death of the Seas
My mental wire renders
Images of worn out routes,
After a short circuit happened
In the pathways of daily burdens;
My diseased body quiver with its weight
The hard stitch rubbles skin snatchers;
Leeched of life force
I have little energy to breath;
The voice I hear is not my own,
They dictate notes in familiar tone
But full of foreign phrases,
Which they disguise as invitation;
I wish I could dissolve from memory
Or hide in my skull cave;
But it is not wise to stifle;
Then an unlearned laughter came
A spring emerging into sun rays
A river emerges from the death of the seas
There are two ways to live a life
I can pursue the difficult one
I Painted an Ocean
I painted an ocean
But forgot the shore
There were no ships
When I took a close look,
It was my isolation
Sailing like the sea waves;
I searched alone for centuries
To add the travelers
In my voyage,
Still, singular I stand
On this mortal deck;
Need an island to anchor
When I call on a radio
It becomes silent monologue outward,
The reply comes from the resounding inside;
With every tsunami from the bosom of the core
I feel like conulariid without pearls;
Although I have vastness of Dead Sea
But no light house of life fervor
∞
Sandeep Kumar Mishra is an outsider artist, poet and lecturer in English Literature. He has edited a collection of poems by various poets – Pearls (2002) – and written a professional guide book -How to be (2016) – and a collection of poems and art – Feel My Heart (2016).
Recently his work has published in New England Review, Classical Poets, Permafrost Journal, Human Touch Journal, Blue Mountain Review, International Times, Literary Yard, Mud Season Review, Verbal art, Stone coast Review, Indiana voice Journal, Ripen the Page, Poetry Nook, Forever Journal, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Priestess and Hierophant, Red Fez, Literary Orphan, Chiron Review, Poetry Leaves, Whirlwind ,Criterion, Really System, etc.
Find him beyond the void of the internet!
Website – https://www.sandeepkumarmishra.com/
Blog- https://sandeepmishra551974.wordpress.com/
Twitter- https://twitter.com/sandeep551974
