The silent scream that takes your breath away
Is not drawn from the exhausted painting
On the priceless wall, beyond your reach,
Waiting to be stolen, like the kisses
Of an unforgettable pastel spring in Paris–
It is what we all hear, day after day
When our fallen idols choke on pretence
And burn new bridges after every blast
While prayers are lost somewhere in the clouds–
Does the ringing of bells mean anything
Anymore? The demons are within
Offering wreaths with smiles, as our thoughts
Wander through the crowded corridors of history–
Our hunchbacked selves observe the testimony
And the screaming eloquence of ancient flames.
An altogether immersive poetic excursion through an existential landscape brimming with familiar tropes.
Thank you,Louis.
Burn new bridges after every blast….touched me…
Thank you,dear Swati.