Biography of Vartika Pandey
Vartika Pandey, science student, aspiring physicist, devotee, poet, orator, philosopher and artist.
Vartika Pandey Poems
Murder Of Sentiments
For an attempt to begin such verse I must abstain from any meter. There has also been a murder of rhythm, Amongst the other sentiments.
If Colors Exist
Some eyes behold, some deject All likelihood that colors exist. Black takes no other hue.
Rejoice My Funeral!
The heavens are dim And the ambiance sings The culprit’s cacophonies. A lady lies lifeless
The Sonnet Of Hope
Prayers of love may fade in strife Flowers of heaven may never bloom inside A thing of beauty may not joy provide But summons of death can never kill life.
I be in dark when my eyes close I be in dark when my eyes open I be feeble, scratching over my scars
Ode To Agony
Descending upon the throbbing flesh like a serpent With venom exploding From each bit of thy deceiving, stupefying frame I view thee, as an offering
Flowers With Thorns
In that niche So dark and deep I found that delicacy
The end and the beginning of wars of existence When the darkness reigns just to evanescence I have slain my nocturnal brethren To mourn the arrival of daylight demons.
The Winds Are Gone
The scorching sun and barrenness Lifeless, no movement. The cheerful rustling of leaves, Their whispering, storytelling
The Aftermath Bliss
The remnants of the gone storms Remind us of the deeds done wrong We collect the ashes of our lost faith Bury the pieces of our fading songs.
Certain fires die before their time Extinguished, never meant to say. Certain things only absorb, not reflect Anything, white, black or grey.
Abyss: The Peace Of Fall
I sensed a barren land of gloom Of slain inhabitants, I could assume But never was there a solid ground I had lost sight, kept plunging down.
A mere notion of her would’ve been enough To enthrall her in his artistic being So intricately carved, I beheld The otherwise piece of leaden rock.
Demons Come Alive!
The curtains on the windows fall To shroud the sweet scent of roses And make the moon look gall There are times I forget to pray
The Devourers Of Ecstasy
Deserts shall not have a foliage by mild showers.
Gods let rain fall on them who may bloom flowers.
But mine shall always be a crimson, blood-drenched hand
For my fate not lies in garlands, not desert sands.
Oh! My ecstasy has been murdered and devoured upon,
So I shall reside in the ravages of ghastly haunts.
How do I address the predators of my own bliss?