This is how

I’ve failed to feel

I reckon loving

A great great deal.

My deeds I’ll sough,

In times of woe;

I might have summoned

my inner plague-

Since all is pointless

All is vague!

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?

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

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,

Early winter,

Delia's gone!

She moves in her own way-

Hold on,

Hopeless wanderer!

I will wait,

It's never too late!