You and me always had a bittersweet relationship
I guess ours is called frenemies ,
I dislike you soo much , yet I can't seem to get enough of you.
When you come this time of the year,you are welcomed with such pretty flowers
Must feel amazing to be soo adored .
Everything seems to lit up just for you
Did you cover the city with the veil of euphoria?
The skies aren't gloomy anymore
But are decorated with hope,
Seems like you flew the mundane in form of the cottony clouds.
I guess that is reason for this disdain ,
I was never a part of that
And you always seem dig up my fragile truth and put it on platter.
You make me wish to belong
You make me dream of abstracts
You make me wish ,to be treated well by you, like you do to others
But disappointment never seems to leave my back .
Yet when you leave ,I tend to foster the hope ,
That you will be good to me next year , beloved October.
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What do you do if you don't like the ending?
Does your mind get clouded by the immeasurable whys ,
Or do you accept it, and label it as destiny?
Do you simply move on
Or do you make the possibilities of what could have your muse?
Does fancying give you peace
Or does it make you realise that lack of it in your mundane life ?
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some warmth to travel through the veins
and melt away the woes .
Warmth that feels like
the arms of a lover wrapped around,
on a torpid winter day ,
snuggled before the fireplace .
Warmth , of a lost ally
and playdates on vacations .
Warmth , of a home
and it's unambiguous adoration.
I wonder,
If it is only found in Wonderland?
Warmth of the buoyant scenarios
Telecasted on the screens.
Warmth, fiery enough to resurrect the departing light ,
not enough to set fire to the bones.
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Lucid roof
No shades of grey ranking aloof.
Mellow rays caressing your cheeks,
On that late October afternoon
Exhibiting a film on the horizon,
Labelled fool's gold.
Blue is the colour of
The abyss,
I drown your souvenirs in,
Hopelessly trying to remain afloat.
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Waves breaks the coast
Gradually removing bits,
And then ripping off a chunk in a flash.
Keep it close though,
Rest it beside your heart .
Soak in the cold of the memoir,
Of our perished love.
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Patience as a practice
Is practiced through floating ,with the time,
Patience as a practice
Is practiced with despair;
Patience as a practice
Is practiced through practicing art.-
Her.Standing behind.Staring back, with that menance smeared curved up lips.And her eyes of catastrophe.
It's been days she has been following.Every turn I take ,I see her.Every alley I run to ,I find her , waiting.Waiting to put me six feet under.Like I did to her.She whispers vengeance in my ears.Her cold hands chokes me when I try to scream.And when I try to tell the tale of her presence ,she makes a fool out of me.
I can't figure it out. How is it even possible?How can the deceased come to life again?How can the Past Traumas crawl back up ,to haunt the Present again and again?-
Can be potters.
How else do you describe
Filling the cracks with dust of hope ,
Turning into Kintsugi?
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I wonder,
Why lies are white?
Is it because it holds back from bleeding red
Or is it because it balances heartbreak on the thread?
I wonder ,
Why lies are white?
When it paints with the colour of night.
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