Poetry Collection by Prabhat Verma
My poetry is not an opinion expressed. It is a song which either arises from a bleeding wound, or from a smiling face.


December and its white shroud,
Inundated in the silver of vanity,
And occluded by the winds I sit,
Emotion charged, beside the fire-place.

Looking through my window and gazing,
Upon the green velvety valley I roamed,
Recondite and obdurate all at once,
All alone, beside the fire-place.

I weep, I laugh, feel tense them relax,
The yearnings of my loved like never,
And them I stormed and turn away,
To walk, beside the fire-place.

This fire gives me pyre and heat,
It burns my flesh but I am content,
The failures and success are indifferent,
In reverie, beside the fire-place.

They come, they go, doors open, then close,
And desert me to move on,
I stay waiting for my future & those,
Serene and calm, beside the fire-place.

I light a candle but blow out a lamp,
My vision depletes furthers as rainforest,
Starved without the rain drops of hope,
And extinguished, beside the fire-place.


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