Pieces of my broken soul still cling to you
Drooping breaths from frail limbs of life
Moonbeams, like quicksilver, skid down my ashen face
I see them quivering and squirming
In tiny puddles of lashing rain
Creating ripples of longing, of piercing pain!

Tonight, broken
I lay upon your step of clemency
In a scattered clutter
Deciphering the codes of life, I painfully stutter
Then, gather me again
A surging tumult splits the heart
Part by part
And its evil gray eye
Consumes my bits
Down a haunting solitude

I gaze empty
As moments fly by
Like dead Autumn leaves
Hurled by a careless wind
Upon a deserted pavement

Where are the melancholic hues of occasion?
This Fall, under a tainted sky
I miss seasons, blink by blink
Leaves fall; decay. Unnoticed.
Autumn is Soulache.
It sobs like a restless spirit, beating its upset wings
Against hollow mesh of cold boughs
When every morn, I behold a rubble of yellow stains
Dotting a red lane
Sundered pieces of yellow flesh, floating in Autumn rain.

Fall has a destitute soul
Its bewitching glory, all smoke
Like deliquescent life, melting away with its mellowness
Time whirls like a dipsomaniac skull
Or am I in a trance?
These pale hands still hold an agitated spool of memories
Autumn breeds nostalgia, I unwind my worries
And slowly, I crawl back
Into the dark womb of memories
I dissolve into wilderness of an abandoned town
Where stones shriek
And a stream, that once hopped with gargling murmurs
Eulogizes with its black waters
The hollow skeletons of an empty laughter

Lining its fractured bay.
Water, that never stops
To stir and bind; when dusk chops
Desire and mind.

I want to get into the Autumn wood
And burn with dry leaves of Chinar
Along deserted pavements
Whereby
An old sweeper gathers the colorful rubble
Of a decaying life
I want to be preserved
As smoke
In the crevices of nostalgic minds
That coils and nestles around their memory
Like a fading Autumnal note
Like incantation of seasons, never wrote
Alone with barren soul of Fall
I lose the count
Of falling leaves and empty sighs,
Autumn has settled deep in my eyes.

About the author
R bukhariSyed Rabe’a Bukhari, published her first work when she was in 7th Grade in 2003.

For her, writing is something which keeps coming back and acts as a potent device to portray the simmering anguish and choking
emotions of those around her. She writes so to carve a memorial, however small on the fleeting pages of time. Now she writes to
cure her maladious soul
.

photography wp theme

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