Stubborn

Be the stubborn frizz
Or the rigid stubble

The imminent morning alarm
On a forlorn Monday

The spec of weed in the perfectly manicured garden


Love them,

So deeply,

Fanatically,

Habitually.

The Forgotten Mistress

The constriction in my throat tightens.
I can smell you around me. Your gentle presence. Like the timid jasmine runner that once adorned the garden. The garden that you loved.

It has now lost the bloom. It may be greener. But it cries for the mistress.

The garden isn't alone in it's mourning.

Flashback

Flashforward thirty-five hundred days

Each day for a greying hair 

A slower metabolism 

And fewer laughters

Geography altered 

Apparel warmer 

Tide and time, wait for none

But time has stood still for one 

Glass, a two way mirror

Sees right past 

Shields one world from another 

For another thirty five hundred days.

The Weeping Willow

Laughter bounces amidst the branches, the wind playfully pushing a child

a traveller's den, a writer's retreat,
sat both under the shade to unwind

Vivacious Green, till the Winter's Might
covered in frost, awaiting the delight

Vicious and Fiery, shrugs off the snow
breaths tidings to the Natives of the Land

A disfigured scrap; ruins of The Flying Car
Malevolent and Merciless, protecting a covenant

Roots so mighty, towns have perished
Bizarre and nurturing, the Power of Weeping.

Poignant

Rainbows and butterflies, chocolates and moor.

It was all that and more, they thought about you. 



The dust shook off; fairy dust.

Dark side they saw, residing in you.


Burning and bleeding, gnawing and clawing.

Repugnant the sight, so dreadful; the fright!


Bring back the ornaments! Fairy dust! The royal camouflage! 

Adorn me, for I must now be an outcast.


Unicorns I see. What do they hide?

The hell hounds I think, they must now be tied.

Rubble

All that you have ever worked for, will undoubtedly crumble down to nothingness.

Like the rubble after an earthquake.

You’ll scream, go crazy, maybe spit at it

Turn to walk away, but you won’t.

You knew you wouldn’t. They knew you couldn’t.

You’d go back. Rebuild. Recreate.

Hoping that this once, it might just flourish.



Fate silently smiles at your ambitions.

It has other plans.

Ashes To Ashes

You're a story I tried to write.
With all elements good.
I had sleepless nights.  A writer's block.
Struggling with all I had, to give you the life I dreamt about. To inspire.

Eons later, i gave up. It was making me a monster.

I couldn't breathe around it; tore it into hundreds of bits and pieces.
Then burnt it down to ashes.

Im old and weak now; a monster nevertheless. You lure me to open you up, again
Dip that feather with ink and scribble your story to immortality. Despise myself, meanwhile.

It's ashes, my dear. It's gone. You can't recreate from ashes.