The unimportant journey
Of becoming me,
Will be told
Through a flower
As very vulnerable I can be:
Another flower
Bloomed in summer,
No red Rose, or a Daisy
Nor a pretty Lily,
Or a Jasmine on a tree
Not as elegant as the Lotus,
Or as tall as the Tulip,
Or a Wordsworth's daffodil-
Nor majestic as
The Orchid, by the mill.
This flower was small
And ordinary;
And no different-
It grew to be-
In spring and summer-
A steadfast little flower,
I indeed could see.
When fervent Autumn came,
She hasn't since been the same!
Oh dear little one,
Were the strong winds
To blame?
Your once so green leaves
Now are all torn,
And frost and winter is near
Yet, you are all worn!
But, must I fear
For the little
And ordinary one?
.............................
Will the meadows
Lack their beauty,
When just a small
One is gone?
It happens in a library
There- where immortal souls dwell
Where the most heart-ful-est words
All that is significant tell.
Solace for the heart's anguish
Consolation to me - for I,
Knowing the day's greyness,
Its colours can alter there-
As my mind silently shouts
"Enlightment from Voltaire!"
These idle visions do
gratify the soul, yet
Shall all life be in vain?
Or shall I cherish the thought
All wishes to attain?
Is one whose eyes
Were often brightened
By tears,
At all allowed to dream?
Or will their entire life
Bear the sadness theme?
This is Farewell
No longer will my footprint
Leave history in the snow;
No more calmness from seas
Just the sound of crow!
Farewell soft summer breeze!
Oh you once so gently
Combed my hair!
Farewell! smell of autumn rain
And that dance I never dared
Fare thee well !
My short-lived joys
I'll land to who knows where!
Now I know, I deserve not much
But if one thing shall be,
An odor of mother's
Homemade bread-
A taste of life to me!
#nfaulk6
He lay me down,
His brown-greenish eyes
In my not-so-perfect self,
Which I feared
He would not desire.
Yet, he scrolled his fingers
Softly...convinced
I had been made
Of ocean-blue sapphire!
And when he grabbed
My pale, small hand-
Oh love was his intent
I knew-
I would endure!
Not a slight feel of aching,
But a fierce sea of torment.
Shakespeare's 'blessedness
Of being little'
Wraps me gently
In his arms.
His subtle touch
My heart fulfills-
Like Wordsworth's ease
With daffodils.
Yet, like poor Keats
I sometimes fear,
That I may cease to be,
For in days of solitude
I seek only me.
Although his love
Does offer seas,
And endless stars to see
When I have failed
To love myself,
Is it true love I see?
I deeply fear
It cannot be,
No partner-
For unloved me.
Is it light
Or is it darkness,
Or the greyness in between?
Is there prosperity
Or is there misery
Can there calmness be seen?
Is is cursed
Or rather blessed,
Or a tranquility overseen?
Is there vagueness
Or completeness,
Is it purity or just unclean?
In all these inquieries-
Many doubts foreseen.
If judgement seems to fail
In all visual perception
Why bother with intention
In our short yet enigmatic,
Beautiful life session?
#Shivaniauthor
Dear Mom,
It's been10 weary years of missing you. You might know that I am not who I was when you were last there. Though, I felt your presence many times, wishes can also fool us. Speaking from that weak part which believes you are still here somewhere, I guess you have been with a lot of "me"s : The shy me, the one who gave herself away to silence, for her words were unheard; the one who rendered to despair; the one who sought sympathy for life at times, the faithful and the unfaithful one, and finally, the hollow grown up me.
There is not much to tell you Mother. All think I am like you, yet, I seem to be the only one to know you and I are nothing alike. I no longer believe in earthly or divine tranquilities. I am often mistaken about this world; the kindness I see in most people betrays me , every single time. I cry. I often cry, for strength forsook with you. The futility of life grabbed away all hope and placed despair in every corner; I misjudge people, situations and I misjudge myself. What is even worse, I no longer believe I shall ever see you again, and this, I pray to be the wrongest of all my wrongs.
I love you,