HPN

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Poetry of Issue #8        Page 30

Games of Deception

I concede to the silence
willing and knowingly:
cystic pain in the frames of my broken window
unhinged from the truth,
is waiting fervently

for that final blow of the winds
that boisterous gale,
to stop this incessant jamming
every stormy night

scarring of the soul has deeply set in
the skewed painting in my room
that unspoken truth;
waiting for the yellow sun to rise
everyday

waits for its due of the soft shadow
when the treacherous sun
plays with the chequered parquet tiles
/pain is a colorless remembering/

A balmy cloud sits mighty on the
edge of my half-eaten window frame
bearing the broken promise of the rain

I lay quietly
my eyes wide open--
gazing at the bosom of the ashen night
from emptiness to nothing
amazed by this truth seared on my soul

Does nature also have its own games of deception?

Megha Rani