by Parth Pandya
Parth Pandya writes a poem about the season of summer and what it does to tormented souls.
He squeezed the misery out of his
Being and left it out to dry,
Pinning it with a clip
Between a pair of torn pants
And a rather scrawny vest.
Everything evaporated
In the heat that started
As a mere whimper at dawn,
And grew exponentially to explode
Into a soliloquy by noon.
It all simmered and burnt —
The road he drove on,
The clothes he put on,
The people he despised,
The people he loved.
If the rains were where
He could drown his sorrows
In the deluge that ensued,
Summer was when he
Scorched his agony to ground.
Summer it was that purged all sorrows —
For what is angst and heartache
In 105 degree Fahrenheit?
For what are parched souls
When the throat itself is dry?
But when Summer glided away
Into monsoon’s open arms,
They rose again like phoenixes —
Those worries, those troubles,
Those niggles that torment.
Parth Pandya is an author of two books and his latest release ‘r2i: Return to India’ (https://www.facebook.com/r2ibook) chronicles his experiences of living in India after being in the US for a period of 16 years. He has been regularly published in forums such as Spark, OneFortyFiction and Every Day Poets. When he is not moonlighting as a writer, he develops software for a living in Bangalore and extols the virtues of Sachin Tendulkar and Mohammad Rafi to his two sons.
