My Stella - 8 - Inner Journey

- - - My stella - - - 8

Inner journey

Kicks the steam off the station and homeward, the real estate for sick heart the journey begins.
Station to station with ups and down and dizzy sound the train moves,
At this very juncture wish I for thy see off, the departure to somewhere, the nowhere,
The place of rest and repose deep away from dear,
This time the train is gloomy, the sound is irritating and indignant, my life is in this rhythmic patterns of pungent flow.

I might have been in my bed to think of thee, or in some lonely bower, wild to poise my life,
Failure, loss and anguish,
I might have been in thine eyes face to face, drinking the honey of thy fear ridden eyelids, or in thy private love and bosom's care,
We might cry for not loving till now, or thou might stop talking to me for loving too much.
We might sit close with words having no expression, or thousands of dollars of bubbling pain inside to choke our hearts liquefied by natural piety and probity, grave and lure,

The train moves - it moves slowly and unfastened, to my lord, my master.
A rare opportunity to me and the train moves, unwilling to pass and halters,
My Mind is not fear of losing itself , it is not anxious to give way to conscience, to be burnt in sapience, rather it halters, postpones and bewilders.

It heretofore merged, eroded into thine eyes and the song of thy heart, and attenuated into thy panting of loaded breath.
The train moves and I recline seriatim from thee to me, and from me to thee,
only pain on this heavy hour to bear with
and to surface the exhibition of grim - grinning face.

by Prabir Gayen

Comments (2)

Some great writing here, this poem has a fluidity of stream of consciousness that heightens an overwhelming sense of surrealistic fidelity. You could easily be describing the ho hum rituals of daily commutes, or life's seemingly forced rush from one journey to the next. Each way you go about the process with faith in seeing the one who guides your life. The constant rush from a to b makes one pine for the lover at z.
....... beautiful I might have been in thine eyes face to face, drinking the honey of thy fear ridden eyelids, or in thy private love and bosom's care, We might cry for not loving till now, or thou might stop talking to me for loving too much