Volume Two, Issue 3

Tiyasa Khanra



A calendar set to the August noon,

painted haphazardly

by mouth.

Can I unbolt the door?

Salt-sweat oozes

from half-shut eyes.

Half-drunk cup of tea,

cooled, detoxed,

but not forgotten.

Where am I shelved?

The gentle moans

lost in the rumble of thunder,

My dust-greased hairs


Frivolous makeshift, am I not?

Dandelions fatten,

Grapple me in.

Confused scuffles

down the spiral staircase.

A canopy of tenebrosity.

My almost burnt cigarette.

The razor-thin line

between Love

and Lust,

and a set of

amaurotic mortals.

Broken knees

of a dancing ballerina,

I fall.

Bronzed from head to ankles,

I fear,

my line ends here.


Eight minutes to twelve,
I drove down the winding roads in a sleepless stupor,
counting fireflies.
Screeching tires, blaring horns and my languid soul drew map to the quietude,
too illusive to trust.
I had my name carved on a mahogany,
the one I was promised.
An unreal willingness chivvied to find the right vines.
I trailed along my own blood on the grass.
There were flashbacks.
My noctambulant self followed the dragmarks.
I had to answer the call.
But the more I plunged in,
the deeper it was.
Soon, I lost track.
An artillery shell of diaphanous silence hit my bosom
and I winced.
The nights that followed saw recurrence on a blank canvas until a daybreak when I heard someone say,

‘Are you like me? Are you alive or just pretending to be so?’

Tiyasa Khanra "I am a nineteen year old published poet from Kolkata, India. I believe in the power of words and phrases and dreams to create a vibratory change through my rantings."

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