My Soul at a Midnight Lamp Post

My soul at a midnight lamp post,
Full of desires
In a hint of depression,
With my eyes wide open
Staring at the blurry city lights,
Gathering a ray of hope,
Side by side joining each rope,
In a string of thoughts that renders me uneasy;
Each night becomes so dizzy,
When I speak to my soul,
My soul at a midnight lamp post.

When planes fly over my head,
And the silence is dead,
Thinking of how high I need to soar,
For the world to hear my roar.
I write a book of my own story;
Each day to remember,
I express my soul thoroughly,
My soul at a midnight lamp post.

Throwing stones over the divider,
I reform the definition of success.
Each day a vague idea,
I pack in a suitcase.
Silently reminiscing my failures,
I overcome with fantasies.
I ask my soul,
Is it money for what I cry?
Unaware of the of hopes of many
With the leaves that dry,
My soul didn’t answer that night;
My soul at a midnight lamp post.

For every successive day
In the spring,
I searched for my pride.
Will the lamp post enlighten me
To be my guide?
Surviving monsoon on the streets,
Even my heart cried.
I still asked my soul
To uplift me for the summers,
As I died,
For my dead soul at a midnight lamp post.

Amid the dread
Even my dog lied,
Fighting to survive
Still his eyes smiled.
Like every night,
As he embraced me
Our souls were tied;
For that moment,
I felt a matter of pride as
My soul was finally happy to dwell,
In a poem I wrote to hide
My soul at a midnight lamp post.

-Adwait Bhingarde