Flames

She remembered the heat of his touch through the thin cotton sheets. Gentle, kind, gauging.
And she remembered the cool metal against her chest, slightly towards the left.
He could hear the beating of her heart- wild, terrified and befuddled
So could she, as she lay stunned by the rippling surge of pleasure that filled her body.

But the moment didn't last.

And nothing could save her from the one that followed.

As the nameless happiness left, in its wake came a jolting realization. The nostalgia for what she'd just lost and what she'd never gain.

He left her ward with his wide back towards her, as she caught a final glimpse of his white coat vanishing behind the door.

He could see her.

She couldn't.

Wouldn't.

Never again will she look in the mirror and smile.

She cried softly, for the girl she'd lost.

For her smooth skin that now remained charred.

She remembered the heat of it's touch- burning, malicious, ravenous.
And she remembered the searing cloth clinging to her face, slightly towards the left.

She sighed, fanning the fire ever more.

Home of the Wanderer

He wanted to love her truly-
her eyes, her smile, her smell,
He wanted to make her laugh,
and catch her whenever she fell

But her eyes were hollow
and her smile long dead,
her heart smelled of carnations,

drying on a grave that said:

"Here lies a soul meant to float-
breeze through triumphs and losses-
beware of holding on to her, O Stranger,
if your life, she ever crosses!"

So his life, he decided,
would be her very home-
the place to which she'd inevitably return

But her home without her,
stands silent and haunted,
in the whistling woods, just waiting to be burned

The House is still his life
each brick, each crack,
every stone, every bone,
every breath held back.

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.