The naked stars imagined,
with rested beauty of celestial fantasies,
were but dangling onto a thread of myth,
or was it just me,
too sober,
to ignore the beauty,
and worry of basal bloops?
Mystery,
entrapped in the skilled weaving of the web,
and how can a hunter escape,
inept as he was,
in - from the web woven across his sides,
laterally and more so bound,
he waits...
Something is wrong,
the distortion far too great,
and mess far too simple,
and where but solution within his head lingers,
like the stars
dangling from a rusted sky of no moon...
Yet, suddenly,
he wakes,
looks at the brightening skies,
he wonders where was the light,
when he wept last night...
The dried web, lies tattered,
and he bemused,
takes off to the mountain top,
from where with a orange courtesy,
bloodied orb rises...
While returning from his sunrise,
fore noon,
he chances a sight,
a sight which pauses all time,
and all that seems to pass,
he finds a frail white bird dangling like Floyd's albatross,
yet with motion,
flapping wings,
moving nowhere,
rooted to the spot in the immediate pale sky...
Was it beautiful,
or just a plain marvel,
he wonders...
He wonders what really is beauty,
that stimulates,
then he ponders on the sky,
where gravity defying -
hovered a bird,
and turned back...
Darkness had returned, and with it,
his shackles and his ties....
He mourns the day, he wove,
as the ghost of web had never passed,
ever haunting the bland night sky,
and he looks up again,
beyond the contour of darkened leaves,
and there lie,
the celestial fantasies,
falling one at a time...
- Karthik Adithya Singaraju
with rested beauty of celestial fantasies,
were but dangling onto a thread of myth,
or was it just me,
too sober,
to ignore the beauty,
and worry of basal bloops?
Mystery,
entrapped in the skilled weaving of the web,
and how can a hunter escape,
inept as he was,
in - from the web woven across his sides,
laterally and more so bound,
he waits...
Something is wrong,
the distortion far too great,
and mess far too simple,
and where but solution within his head lingers,
like the stars
dangling from a rusted sky of no moon...
Yet, suddenly,
he wakes,
looks at the brightening skies,
he wonders where was the light,
when he wept last night...
The dried web, lies tattered,
and he bemused,
takes off to the mountain top,
from where with a orange courtesy,
bloodied orb rises...
While returning from his sunrise,
fore noon,
he chances a sight,
a sight which pauses all time,
and all that seems to pass,
he finds a frail white bird dangling like Floyd's albatross,
yet with motion,
flapping wings,
moving nowhere,
rooted to the spot in the immediate pale sky...
Was it beautiful,
or just a plain marvel,
he wonders...
He wonders what really is beauty,
that stimulates,
then he ponders on the sky,
where gravity defying -
hovered a bird,
and turned back...
Darkness had returned, and with it,
his shackles and his ties....
He mourns the day, he wove,
as the ghost of web had never passed,
ever haunting the bland night sky,
and he looks up again,
beyond the contour of darkened leaves,
and there lie,
the celestial fantasies,
falling one at a time...
- Karthik Adithya Singaraju
