The quest for peace isn't perfect internally. I am a traveller, lost in the need of separation from pain. But the pain making me feel numb everyday. Just, finding the reason to die for a good cause. Because, my heart doesn't accept to die with this ache given by the world.
If you happen to have a chance encounter with the girl who finds adventure not only in dragons, leprechauns and garden gnomes but in the metamorphosis of a caterpillar and survival stories of the plainest of folks. If you ever manage to stumble upon the boy who loves colour black but dreams in all shades of rainbow, who writes about the setting sun as if it's the only miracle he knows. If he tells you that the solar system is nothing but gases and rocks, light-years afar but whispers a wish under his breath whenever he witnesses a shooting star. If she tells you she believes in no airy-fairy crap but curiously checks the horoscope of herself, of yours and of everyone who matters and smiles at the tiniest ray of hope.
If you ever find someone who saves a tear for every choice they can't make again. If you ever find someone who runs out of fingers once they start counting their blessings.
If you find the person who believes in magic enough to dare to let the wild in. Keep them. Keep them closest to yourself. And if you can not keep them, atleast don't turn them into someone else.
The silken skies- an ornate labyrinth of chiffon stars,walnut moon and classic silence was my perfect muse that night, I intended not to write a sad poetry but it turned the intense of all as if stroked with fine layers of darkness.
My eyes traced dew drops of tears. melting from edges of the wrinkled paper, words strangulated to bleed pure grief, perhaps the bottled pain of a troubled soul leaked from the secret closet of the moon and slowly dissolved in the waterfall of moonlight I was filling in my pen to write fushsia toned poetry; someone's tinkling droplet lurking in the 105th floor of the skyline fell and landed between my words scattering tiny wildflowers of pain.
Many eyes are captured by the starry night and caramelised tranquillity, but some eyes only see the patches of blackness loitering between the luminous bulbs; The night sky is a graveyard for the weeping souls who empty buckets of pain and dump it, only to get refilled again and again.
The world revolves in phases. There are knots of gaps I tremble to recover. The notches of loneliness confine who l am. It consumes and growls, leaving debris of emptiness. A voice rings effortlessly, a alarm for aliveness, a knock from a stranger, a bang on my ironed body. How fragile and rough it's touch could be. Creativity flows in through fatigue gaps. It's remains are felt, when the world lulls. The relativity of time seduce the cult of becoming. How the voice nurtures stiches of existence within me. The mirror reforms a reflection of splintered skin, flesh and guilt. How the scars of neglect are foreseeable in the lucidity. The duality of mundane body refuse any form of recovery. I inhibit in the rigidity of neglect, rapidly expanding through gaps and phases. The world without noticing keeps revolving in phases. While I resource vacuumed recovery, evolving into those phases.