Silent Poetry
8
192
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Author：Sreeja Naskar
Type：Male
(#1 in metaphor)
At late nights, I could see those choked words rushing out of my throat-shouting their presence in the ink of the broken pen.
They are awake to be in my heart and on this paper. In the soft yellow light of the lamp,
I'm weaving them again, breaking the captivity of time. Oh, I'm still writing.
At late nights, I could see those choked words rushing out of my throat-shouting their presence in the ink of the broken pen.
They are awake to be in my heart and on this paper. In the soft yellow light of the lamp,
I'm weaving them again, breaking the captivity of time. Oh, I'm still writing.
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