Hessonite

She had eyes that sparkled,
but she never really knew
how the shine came a long way
from a deeper, warmer blue

In her heart, she held a rhythm
that fueled her soul
with love that waited patiently
for a symphony to unfold

Her feet touched the soil
of a very many lives
she held all their memories
of courage and of strife

yet it felt as if her own earth
remained still without a seed
no colors caressed by the wind
no naked wooden need

Then the birth of an awareness
of her skin, her eyes, her hands
and here was the end of all
abysmal, barren sands.

The melody was found
in drops of soft hessonite,
that shone with eternal truth
of her own spirit bright

In a swirl of struggle and revelation
she found her answers and keys
to the doors imprisoning the warmth
of all her past stories


**Hessonite in Indian Astrology is believed to have a very strong influence on the mental and spiritual equilibrium of a person. It helps in healing from depression, energizing a person to generate new ideas and turn a fresh leaf. It's the gemstone for regeneration.

Sound of the Unheard

There's a house down the road,
shining in the leafy embrace,
of it's friends that go green with envy,
if challenged by another friendly face.


For long the windows have remained,
shy of the coquettish wind,
have never opened their arms wide
to welcome the monsoon spray as it begins.

For long the sun-kissed doors
haven't let a shadow find home within.
The porch has aged in the silence,
without clinking spoons at tea, or toasts of gin.

Inside remains a soul,
afraid to step out and behold,
the love meant for her heart,
because her tale remains untold.





Photo courtesy: http://sadcan.tumblr.com/; http://softgrungepalepastelandpretty.tumblr.com/

Sound of The Broken

The lyric that flows softly,
fading through the crevice,
into the silent womb
of hopes denied a trellis,

would perhaps never rise again,
for it takes courage to break a word,
the sound of it's crack, resonant,
yet painfully unheard.

How hurt would be the heart,
that can't hear it's own cry,
whisper,or pain,or plea?
an everlasting spell of dry

It hopes to be forgotten soon,
to be resented for all its callousness,
to be held by none, trusted by none,
to be left to wallow in its hollowness.

It wonders if a little light,
may restore the world's purest conception,
and it dreams of spring to color again,
the canvas it soiled beyond redemption.

So here's to hope and fantasy,
and love that refuses to cease,
but flows from a distal source now,
where its safe to be slowly released.

And here's to the soul that remains
the unprecedented image of happiness,
a being who strives to trust
and embrace the world for its ampleness.