Sunday, May 29, 2011

Atlas bled

Day after Day,
the burden of choice grew,
harder to bear,
heavier to carry

Heart pumped,
Veins thrummed,
gradually growing tired

Atlas bled,
still holding up.

for him,
it was a duty sacred,
to be performed,
like drawing of breath

while every breath,
suck out of him
life
moment after moment
like a poison

Still Atlas stood,
without a moan,
enduring the wounds
bleeding silent tears of blood

'cuz,
the wounds to him,
were like thorns
of the flower blooming from
seeds
lovingly sown
tenderly tended,
laboriously grown.

Thorns of the flower of love.



8 comments:

ani_aset said...

nice metaphorical poem..loved it

Adee said...

an atlas exists in every one of us...though the weight we carry differs from person to person. nice thought Meeta.

Vivek said...

read your poem after a long time and must say you have matured a lot as a poet... its very deep and i could connect with every single word of it... and adee is right here, everyone has his own mountain to climb... keep writing

meeta said...

@Ani Thanks for the read & the comment :)

meeta said...

@Adee yes atlases are all around in everyone of us :)

meeta said...

@Vivek Thanku..infact I have written after a long time & I do keep trying

Surubhi said...

I like :)

meeta said...

2surubhi you are getting bck to the old habit of two words i see.