Dead Poet and Coffee
A Poem of Loss and Renewal

Possibly, every single part of me has passed away. It is as if I am serving for misdeeds that I have never committed; Their shadows remain, like ghosts within me. In the midst of flitting dreams, there are whispering misgivings.
The pain, which is always present in my chest, There was a slow ache that echoed past amends. A melody of pain has been admitted, The verses are fragmented, and there are no endings.
The dawn, however, is a silvery bleed on the rim. A promise that is inscribed in the sultry air, I am a traveler who has come to the dark. to call upon the spirits through my prayer.
Almost as if they were whispering in the shadows, the beans sent forth a scent that is bittersweet. There is a whisper that leaves its mark with each grind. A requiem written on a sheet of porcelain.
A liquid fire’s kiss, the brew is one of the A gleam of scorching embers to warm the chill, A fleeting moment of happiness, a stolen moment In the place where words such as “phoenix” find their will.
Because the poet breathes in the steam, Born from ashes, a voice that has been reincarnated Pain is woven into each cup, which is a chalice. In verses that the dawn laments being written.
If I were a poet, I would sigh if I were dead. However, with each mouthful, I can ascend once more. Because it is in this symphony of bitterness that My words, the ghosts, find comfort as well.
Let the coffee serve as my soothing balm, My ink, my gasoline, and my own breath, I will pour out my pain in each and every psalm, until the dead find a lovely release in death.
While the rest of the world is asleep, unknowing, Regarding conflicts that were fought alone, The poet who has passed away and his cup of coffee One that is misunderstood and unstable.
© Shuvranil Sanyal, 2024
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