Tulips

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The sun shined a brilliant blaze through my

Glass doors today,

Shifting this mind numbing daze built in the column of my living,

With aeons of flying shed dust

That refuse to sediment in the murky waters of time.

 

As if God stood as a guest in guise outside our humble hearth.

Tears of brilliance and reverence in my eyes.

Maybe there is some one I could love

Far and close, near and away.

 

It is winter with no blooms to cheer you

In my withering gardens,Sweetheart.

They are as gray and sullen

As this season after feasts and bygone goodbyes.

As I gave the last of my mirths to

Strangers of blood and not.

But there are songs of robins and sparrows and whatever of them,

Still care to sweeten my

Ember of a soul.

Singing in gratitude of nature and time

And better days to come by

Because ’tis a beautiful one.

Today.

 

Last night I withered through the storms with

A wayward bough hitting the windows and door,

Like a petrified orphan.

And I thought of those obstinate kisses

I once wished for as much as the

Embrace that would not let go off my

Ill, rebel of a being.

Maybe, before I move to a better loved home?

 

For now, I have, however, some rainbow tulips

In a vase waiting for a Lover’s gaze

To unfurl every petal and drench his

Thirst for youth, colour and all that can be used up and ruminated.

Like an abuse you spew out of your mouth in terrible heat

Of your heart.

 

Come if you may, to sit by the fire.

Tell me some stories of yours, ours, what ifs and

Those that can never be heard.

Hold my hand, as fragile as the skin above my veins.

Dont let it go off,

Not even in an absent thought.

Because I can

With all that I have.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Restitution of Love

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I

A flower in my own garden

Of living,

A bud

Shy to open up

To what could be called her

Beauty,

Nurturing for myself

From my withins

Roots and leaves

All within,

I

Am ravishing when in the fields.

Left alone, ungazed and untouched

Amidst all the other

Unknown glory.

 

You want to see me

Closer to you then,

Then,

stroke, touch and feel my scent

In your innards

And when,

i am in your hands

Satiating your senses,

Crushed in the harmony of

Your pulp

I become ‘old and dry and cold and wry’.

 

Once a God but now

A forgotten one,

I lie in the mud

Drenched and soaked

In tears from some heaven.

 

 

 

Maybe someday

Someone will know

What love is to be.

 

To let them bloom in their fields,

Their glory

Never to be held

But only to be

Felt

Just as the

Air we breathe.

 

 

 

GREEN BEACON

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This bunch of green, to me is the most idealistic of living beings. The epitome of perfection. The symbol of what beauty should be made to be.

It chose to befriend a pile of gray, cracking, cold rocks,to live in symbiosis and harmony, to provide its own minimalistic yet profound happiness to the beholder’s eyes.

Isn’t that how humans are supposed to be? Realise the potential of a cracking soul, adopt it, nurture it and show the rest of the world what can come of the most downtrodden of men. Or women. Or a child. And when we tune on that nerve of compassion in us, we bring into being an ideal world. Quite a Utopic concept, but only if we thought about what is happening around us with a wider “opened eyes”, will we understand, that it is not easy for anyone. The king amongst us, would be an insomniac worrying about his fading charm, the swan amongst us could be an abandoned daughter and the child with the bouncy hair and cherub cheeks would probably be craving for its mother’s warmth.

My own soul feels gray and cracked. And as much as I dont want to look back, I realise that only if I embrace my past with kindness will I be able to smile tomorrow. And I am grateful for my family and friends for all the support showered upon me, but is everybody else as lucky? As often as depression threatens to kick in, I remind myself that it is always not about me and that I do have a warm hearth and bed to sleep on.

The people we meet are as cold as the weather outside in November. Sometimes colder. We all take refuge in knowing someone more through their social networking profiles, than looking into their eyes and read what their soul is screaming out. It requires courage and we have fooled ourselves into believing that being a coward is a display of bravery. Our laughs are as fake as our will not to cry.

The highest of living beings have forgotten the rules of living, and here is a bunch of plants that are usually weeded out, showing me, what it means like to live and hold life in any given spot of earth. If this is not a symbol of hope for a ruining soul, then what is?