Like a flute playing sweetly on its own…

Verses for the one I haven’t found yet, but belong to in entirety.

Like the breeze of a forlorn evening, come flow into me,
through me, burst out from my pores,
like a flute playing sweetly on its own…

Let your fingers dance upon the notes, one by one as our song unfolds, be the turning of this rapture,
the swaying of the overture, the pitch of this quiet, surrounding us,
embalming our spirits into our still bodies…

Let your lips guide us tonight, on this journey between the mountains and the seas, of our flesh stained by the ink of longing,
tainted in the colours of belonging…

Be the swelling in my marrow, the surging in my veins, the purging of my pains, be the wind that dances wildly,
under my skin of inflatable shell,
escape my eyes in the tears I give away,
like a flute playing sweetly on its own…

Incomplete this one has been, in the search of your shadow, aching, trying to find a way to scrape away and eat into the peels of what is left inside…

Hold me gently; for shriveled I have become,
place me in placid lake of your palm, come closer;
heal me with your breath, in tune only with the syncopation of my beating heart, like a flute playing sweetly on its own…

This night is writing a poem, and the poem is you;
every verse penned down in the tears of solitude itself…
I have read you a thousand times, rejoicing with every passage;
that little freedom, I have found in the labyrinth of your anamnesis…

Be the echo that calls me out of this cave of anonymity,
you know my name for it is tangled with your cry…

Find me in the sound of the hushed whispers in the sky;
come flow into me, we are here now,
burst out from my pores, like a flute playing sweetly on its own…

Siddharth Pathak
1st of January 2013


4 comments

  1. “like a flute playing on its own”…resonates….the repitition is effective. This is a deeply sensuous poem, but it’s sweetness lifts it to an arc of romanticism that’s uplifting and quite lovely. Bravo!


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