I’d like to know each quaver of masked feeling
that lilts past you, as you sit there composing
those measures, with the cadence of grace flowing
through each iota of you, quickly flaring:
creating an allegro of swift longing
for beauty that eludes; but you’re still hoping
though muses fade, and then left with soft yearning:
just an adagio of broken meaning,
I’d like you to find me here, always searching
not for crescendos that wound, but an ending
to your sonata and my lines: our meaning.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

6 responses

  1. “but you’re still hoping / tough muses fade” wrecks my heart everytime – with that well known feeling of “but I’ve done it before… is it gone forever? What if I’ll never be able to create something beautiful again?” – and the hours, waiting for a way to close that doesn’t betray the way I opened. I believe that in this poem, you have managed exactly that. Thank you.

    • Thank you for reading and leaving such an insightful comment. I think any creative individual dabbling in the arts (especially writing) goes through phases when there’s absolutely no inspiration. You feel dry and betrayed, but I’ve found that it always comes back. Reading a lot helps bring it back in my case.

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