ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
I came as an echo.
My sound, often tenuous, sometimes tepid,
festers in the hollow of my aching throat: a vessel for uncommitted actions.
I travel, ricocheting along thick foliage, stone walls, and mountaintops,
eagerly searching for a comfortable grave
in the rusted-red sky, the burnt, sinking Sun,
where the stars await my last, dissipating cry.
The moon scoops me up and
dusts my murmurs across the centuries.
I whisper to her, “I came as an echo;
I depart as ash.”
Gratuity Treasure Chest
Joining this tier, you gain access to a reserved extra content that are carefully crafted just for you.
Your subscription doesn't just support my art; it fuels it, allowing me to dedicate more time and resources to producing even more of the content you love. It's a partnership that propels this project forward.
Join me in this exclusive tier, and together, let's take this artistic adventure to new heights. Your appreciation fuels my passion.
$2/month
Literature
human time capsule
evidence suggests I
spend my energies on
friends who end up enemies and
more or less the rest of me worn
thin from splitting them from me torn
limb from lingering memories born
blessed unless the less you see seems
better than the best of me and
I forget how to forget myself so
sometimes I'm someone else or
else the effort's unaffected
(I'm in pieces/you're collected)
calmly confessing
conflicted questions
every breath an
unlearned lesson
(dispersed
in all directions)
each truth unearned
despite intentions
Literature
to the right
In metal bodies held to asphalt
we are snared by indecision—
by something larger than ourselves.
Our eyes stray and consult
the fickle neighbor for direction.
His tires waver in distress
as the screaming procession
of blood red lights nears.
Underneath the standstill,
the road suffocates.
Roadside daisies are muddied
in the stampede of cars
moving to the right.
They bleed in chemicals,
wailing to their roots
to save them.
She bleeds in blood,
wailing to the ambulance
to save her.
Literature
This Side of the Clouds
there is soil
that will never produce flowers,
rain that chokes
more than it quenches,
and some stones, unsatisfied
with being near-impenetrable,
still opt to wage
slow crystallized war
beating back the plague of man
for we are willful, but empty,
a collected misdirection
that lost so much more
than just its way,
our mineral eyes may be diamonds
but the setting is loose
and their cut has no character
merely fluid, taking the shape
of situation and its spoils
we're dead as an uncelebrated christ
dead like old grain in the silo
vermin crawled, rot riddled
awaiting a further processing
we must so richly deserve,
and a lick of salt and bite of
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
Comments15
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Overall
Vision
Originality
Technique
Impact
First of all, I loved the surreal feel to this. You coursed along the imagery with so much candor as if the words melted between your fingers. And you made newer rhythmic models out of them. With one continuous mood of the incomplete being encompassing it all.
Now, although I don't consider critiquing poetry as a particular strength of mine. I’ll try to discuss a few things which I felt instinctively while I read this -
"The moon scoops me up and
dusts my murmurs across the centuries.
The verb form of dusts generally refers to wiping or cleaning. I’m not too sure if that’s the effect you wanted to achieve over here. I won’t be able to quite put my finger on it, unless you explain your intent there, but I feel that itself calls for a rephrasing for clarity’s sake. For the poet may not travel with the poem.
“I came as an echo;
I depart as ash.”
I felt both the phrases using the word as made it sound a bit too constricted. Perhaps, using something like “I depart in ash” in the second instance will make it sound more lyrical.
Also, the significance of this poem ran with its playful mingling with the imagery of its audible, which has been infused (may I say) very subtly throughout the poem – aching throat, sound – tenuous and tepid, dissipating cry, murmurs. The poem throughout builds on the imagery of coming as an echo. But then, the poem takes a turn and transforms to the realm of the tactile – thick foliage, stone walls, burnt sun, dusts. The transformation is extremely gradual and beautiful. As if it springs right from the heart of a sound and becomes a thing, within the breadth of a few lines. And ends perfectly in the metaphor of ash. And this is something that was extremely commendable about this poem.
Thanks for sharing this wonderful piece with us.
Smile.