Rising in the midst of the foggy path,
a dark silhouette, wielding a promising sword,
I am but a scar, marked by my own wrath,
awaiting and envisaging my transparent tomorrow.
Lowering my head, bowing to my trailing past,
I kneel. I leave behind, the blood on my hands.
Cleansing myself of horrors at last,
I pray for a new beginning.
Absorbing every sign of light in my way,
I vow to tread this darkened course,
shining and glowing with a fiery aura, ablaze,
imprinting a signature of my existence,
on every corner of my journey.
Indian Literature and Poetry | Nirali Bandaru writes for Indian Review. Visit and find more authors to read from. Enjoy the literature from around the world.