This too… Shall Pass

concrete road between trees

An ominous wind whistled through my cavernous heart
I wondered – could I transform its beauty into art?
Language abandoned, unshackled, alone, unable to start,
A verbal maester untongued, oh how I did smart.

New world opened, emptier than ever,
Entire planet turned on an Archimedean lever,
Jupiter, Saturn, their fleeting promise together,
Artist, dreamer, soul’s hope slumbered ever deeper.

I feared I grew day by day larger, harnessed by ties unseen
To massive, impersonal, blind dead gods pulling strings.
A dead human, buried, entombed in gilded golden sheen,
A person subtracted, eliminated, abstracted to a mean.

At day’s end, does it matter who I am, however unruly?
Except to you and I, and the Earth we treat so cruelly?
Ours is the world story, its restraints, its bullying glory,
In it we bathe, dimensions tied and fastened to its folly.

Man’s mind is shifting wind, stormblown leaf, night’s fiery firefly.
Who am I? I never know, much as I declaim, much as I decry,
Shifting sands stirred by my very question, they float and fly,
Never can I be still, calm, stagnant like a blue-skeined sky.

So we take heart, because life visits all in measure,
Its madness, all-encompassing size defying seizure,
Even by those driven, they stand up and seize her,
Even by those damned – to the destiny of Caesar.

In the deep darkness, echoing silence of midnight
Where honor is a corpse, long fallen every knight,
Whatever circumstance, however terrible its class,
Remember, dear reader: this too… it shall pass.

Author’s Notes

  • Several sections are inspired by Robert Frost’s poetry. Notable are the physical descriptions in stanza #4, although I admit Mr. Frost’s far surpass mine in depth, detail, and beauty.
  • I wrote this poem across two seasons: fall and winter.
    I originally wished to write a poem that started out pessimistic but developed a lighter tone as it progressed. While I did complete the poem in winter, my mental state at the time was such that my creation felt absolutely worthless, and all my editing attempts failed.
    I nearly gave up on it multiple times but decided to take my own advice: “remember, dear reader: this too… it shall pass”.
  • I began this poem in October 2021. My life has changed in leaps and bounds since: symbolic birth and death were constant companions. Looking back at this poem, I feel more connected to my past self: regardless of the vicissitudes, I am still me.
    Whatever that means.
  • “This too shall pass” is a phrase that will uplift you in bad times and depress you in good times. It is an exhortation to humility, to hope, to the fact that the present is ever evolving. However good or bad things are: this too shall pass.

Twin Flames in Darkness

Message to my muse: I will never forget you.

When I saw you first, clothed, masked in persona,
Twitch through mind, in my body a silent roar,
Wicked glint in my eye, face of some fauna.
Primal instincts screamed: reach out, take her.

Journeying hand in hand, mind, body, soul intertwine
Translate to modern parlance: girl thy being be fine.
Tie you hand, foot, heart; myself being the twine,
Pour you out and partake as a glass of fine wine.

Twin flames in darkness, holding bay the night,
Singular thoughts two-pronged; dual wings in flight,
Bodies in rhythm, manifesting an effulgent light:
We are jagged jigsaw pieces; together made right.

Soon we will be alone.

Dear dearest, you are apple of my core,
Ally, friend, confidant, I could ask no more,
A partner like you, who would have me grow?
And a cutie and a half, a little one though.

Under the stars we did once sit.
Though long nights we did not meet,
And a dozen friends we did not greet;
Yet here we are, here we breathe.

Distant bass beats of a farewell drum,
But still…. why look so glum?
Take life’s strand in hand and strum,
For another verse is ever to come.

And when the song and dance is over,
Will we worry about how we played the over?
Wish we ran the race a little slower?
Peeked a couple times over our shoulder?
Here be Ignorance… ‘tis our four-leaf clover.


Footloose, wanderer, peripatetic gypsy man,
Forever walking, where willst make thy stand?
Stretching forever, yet infinitely short it is,
What comes next?
Life is such a tease.

A Storm

Note: I recently came across this poem that I wrote in late 2016 or early 2017. Comparing it to my newer poems, I can’t help but notice how much my work has improved. This reads more like spoken word than poetry. Hopefully, you’ll still enjoy its innate message.

I have left it unedited, because it is a snapshot into a younger, less developed me. A version of me who was much less in touch with my emotions and values.


She was a storm.

She was a tempest, her every word and deed lashing against me with all the power of an angry sea.
She was nature herself, the unbridled expression of every feminine divinity unleashed.
And she was in before I knew it.

Without any warning.

My walls crumbled before her onslaught, for no wall can stand against the wrath of a divinity.
My defenses shattered and I lay there, weak and helpless and in the grip of a horrifying and all-encompassing terror.
Every wall, every fence, every thought that I had wreathed myself in was thrust aside in an instant.
She thought she broke in front of me but, unknowingly, she broke me.

What was this? Me, vulnerable?
My vulnerability shocked me – so long had I been cocooned in the shell of my own numbness.
And then I realized.
She was light.

She was ambrosia in a world of bland bread. She was color in a greyscale world. She was a mountain in a featureless world.

And as she smote me into a thousand pieces, she gave me a gift.
One that I did not comprehend at first. One that scared me at first. One that broke me again.
She gifted me… feeling.

She gifted me pain and madness and imperfection. She gifted me excruciating pleasure and beautiful pain.
In a binary world composed of logic, she was a paradox.
For she was femininity made flesh.
Back and forth we fought, but neither could win.

It was madness. It was insanity. It was…


Once I was a Man; A Refugee’s Tale

A poem by Advait Joshi

Beloved, brood of my blood; my arms were your shields,
I lived for you, tho’ these words I would never speak.
My heart beat for you, week after week after week,
Sweat from my brow; yours; all my muscles’ yields.
My furrowed face ever lined, gruffness ever stretched a mile;
But by your cool hands was always born a smile;
Once I was a man, oak-strong in these fluttering fields. 

Meteoric rain, taut-skinned demons covered in mud, 
My books, your pictures, all turned to ashes;
While bedeviled madmen lit ever more matches.
But all is never lost; o beloved, o brood of my blood.
Walking forever, a single light at the end of our tunnel,
Past desert and ocean, ‘twould be worth the struggle.
Once I was a man; with hope and fear aflood. 

Spiked club crashed down, my knee cratered.
Again it rose, my beautiful child’s face shattered
You wept cursed screamed; had it ever mattered?
You railed and railed, our child’s corpse blood-spattered,
Unbidden, involuntary, my hands reached for your neck.
Gasping and choking, purple bruises on your flesh.
Once I was a man; dry-faced and battered.

Leaking and torn dinghy, my heart full of dread;
Gigantic wave smashed down, my rage knew no bounds. 
I saw them go under, o beloved, I saw you drown, 
Once I was a man; now I am dead. 

Paean to Kĩrĩ Nyaga

Alone and rugged, brings tears to eye,
Broken stone spear tip touches sky,
White-flecked peaks push mind to fly,
To majestic abode of ancient Ngai;

Behind feathered clouds peeks blue sky,
Radiance sun-founded blinds man’s eye,
Green verdant forests carpet-like lie,
Wind flows sings screams never shy.

Crow caws, bird sings, tree undulates,
Eye and mind time at different rates,
Another tear rolls down soul’s gates,
For mere words forever fail nature’s states.

Majestic, magnificent, old beyond measure,
His sight itself an incredible treasure,
Silent in earth-spanning sky’s embrasure,
In him world-weary minds find leisure.

Human story circles back to self,
Thus I cycle back to soul’s shell,
Rock spire-seated, mind weaves spell,
Invisible motion to where thee dwell.

This poem was originally published on Medium on Mar. 29, 2020.


Together we sit, dance deep on the brink;
Eyes meet; breaths prance in sync;

An intimacy; no need to disrobe;
Thus do we see; behind this teary globe:

Lies a person like me;
Vast and infinite is she;
A dreamer like me

Unknowable, unconquerable, and unquenchable;
Her butterfly mind counterpoint to my stable.

This poem is but a story, nay, a parable;
The cipher not caught; ’tis mere babble.

She turns away; I look even deeper;
Would you run? Would she?
Does thee burn? Is it for me?
She flees my sway; I pull ever closer.

A sharp flame rises; the night darkens;
The moment suffices; the soul harkens.

She is my muse; my rhythm and my blues;
Is she but a ruse? A silently smoldering lit fuse?

’Tis the story of me;
A yearning for the sea;
The quest to be free

Heart of crisis; shifting soul of the Pisces.
Blue dawn rises; mind still surmises;

Breathe, stillness, silence; do you see?
Chaos, perfect balance; as all things must be.

This poem was originally published on Medium on Dec 25, 2019.