“We must pursue the beauty to its lair” — Arundhati Roy — I refuse to be the robot the seemingly decaying human evolution expects me to be. I refuse to act like I own everything I ever wanted and needed, everything I ever dreamed about. I don’t. I refuse to be your perception. I refuse to be your shadow. …

A poem — poetry (Inspired by village folks struggling and walking miles for water) — The Color of Water If a crazy soul asks what I would wish to be if not the flesh captured as the human skin, would my answer be the element called water, pure, drinkable and great revered even without tangible human sack. Honest and glittering with transparence open to all…

A Poem on the spirit of Humanity — As wind blows through my window And drizzles of rain sneaks in Thoughts start weaving a kingdom Of wondering what I cult I’d belong. Where did I come from Matters no more I hailed from the land That now dries to cracks. Filled with droughts And odd potholes. Where should…

My Sunday fashion — Sheer solace I wondered all my life Where it lies and lives A sheer feeling of magic With a charm that lingers Not that I am an old green Not old enough to be a monk Not so young that I should preen Am Stumbling but not defeated by time. …

And fall right into yet another slide of the Time: 2023 — Well, this is the 31st Dec already. Thirty-First December 2022. Last hours of the year. This is something spontaneous coming to my mind. And I am not the type of person who pens something spontaneously all the time. Nor do I believe I am that all casual in my spirit…

Magic. (Short-form Poem) — Magic is when your worst self nudges your dark self to tease the best self to create some sparkles and cheers that appear like the dull misty face on the morning mirror © Prasant Trivedi 2022 Thank you for reading. Deeply grateful for setting your eyes on my poem and giving it a read. Stay blessed. I Am Not Gone Yet Still Alive. A humble Poem. Self /Life/ Hope/Introspection.prasantwordy.medium.com

Still Alive. A humble Poem. Self /Life/ Hope/Introspection. — I might not be as alive as a dancing cool leaf in the spring breeze But I am still here breathing, being, waking, creating, talking sometimes winning, often losing and humble, bumbling in words being written here and there seemingly arrogant to the over-arrogant but rather swimming through the pool of inner quietude with the yelling…

In the class on World: Poem Truth nudged Lie The day the sky grew dark And thunders rumbled Like the sound of a burly old countryman Within the cotton fluffs of clouds above my head They weren’t friends, Truth and Lie Both sitting on the same bench Attending the class…

(In my room) The Poem. On terrors, anarchy, and horrors breathed in by the troubled citizens in my country — The Lavendar Calendar (in my room) It gets dark and scary under the ministry of demons Wounded days plunge in with guilt and fright hurtling the reluctant bright light, spitting the white lies at the sad sorry earth Its intense echoes heard, frightening till the last of the night…