Branches
A poem for Shloka, who inspires me to write better and more wonderful verse for the Keatsian lovers out there traversing the streets.
I am scared of being older,
The wither of Time’s sacred ass
In this apple. Orchard of lived souls,
everything is softly turning. To death
Surely I have stood. Here before and here after,
Surely I have nursed my own infant hopes. Before
This I have dug the entrance. My own ending:
I am my own life’s play thing each time.
Aloft from tree canopies, tall as they are
Ravaged by each seed of longing.
The applause outlives…all the talents I plucked
With my eyes closed. All the repeated sounds
Fall in my ears, as soft as the lovers.
They are obstinately sitting in branches.
The kissing is something we choose to do
Sometimes.
To keep Time happy.
Feel free to follow me @gamuchiraiistrue on instagram if you dare, where I post more of my poetry and prime Shloka content.
