(Inspired from this post)
She walks holding his hand, he – the child of the dark. she knows he is getting used to her shadow entangled with his dark aura. he likes the warm glow she has he tells her. she says its only when she is with him but he just nods. Together they walk thus, holding hands. Their souls walk a step behind, arms linked , her head resting on his shoulder. they look back at the scene, laugh in the eyes, and walk into a new dawn.
She got rid of the letters and the gifts the day she met a prospective groom for the first time. Later one night, she found the only photograph of his, hidden in her favorite book. His smile looked different , heart broken almost. She realized he wanted her to wait. And she did. All her life.
it should be a sin she thought, to love him. The worthy yet not. It wasn’t about deserving but being within reach. He was the warmth of comforting hug and also the burnt of flames let loose ; the cold moon light and also the numbness causing buckets of ice.. He was lovable but not for her. He was a shadow she walked with all time yet visible at will or light. She was darkness , he was the tears. Both entwined by fate yet forced to stay aloof by fate.
She was in love again.. And again on verge of losing it.. It snould be a sin she thought to love people not meant for you,, or had she sinned already ? She smiled as he hugged her. The introspection will wait.
A blank sheet I am,
and so I would remain,
if left alone in a corner,
to await a turn of fate.
I like not myself like this,
some words i always want,
to make my life a little better
will you not give me a chance ?
I slip out of my place
and follow you around
towards winds i try to crawl
unless you hold me down.
Oh the first scratch,
the strikes and the flowing lines
the words, the tears, the smiles,
these memories will keep me alive.
Inspired by this poem : http://musingsofachaoticsoul.blogspot.in/2012/02/blank-piece-of-paper.html
To her , anything beautiful was art in making. The eyes greedily took notice of each line the creator made or bent, some exotic some just a pleasure to watch. Often, when she stood naked in front of mirror, she wondered how could he love her shapeless body . He wrote about beauty of her tears those nights.
source : imgfave.com
Words, feelings and pauses,
she knew her stance with him,
she saw not where his lines were
but she did fit her cursive style well.
The spaces felt redundant often,
fingers wrote what ink failed,
envelop of hugs carried letters
of dreams shared never before.
Not like the detailed paintings
they created in the past – but
overlapping lines of modern art,
they merged in colors and tones
whispered in the clear cuts
and slept within the blurred
boundaries.the painting had a life.
A brush of fingers;
first taste of morning tea;
he snuggled close
like smell of fresh rose;
enveloping hugs
a naughty waterfall,
hushing the bird’s cry
she nestled in his gaze;
A vain attempt
to break the time
gather dry leaves
and burn them green.
(Based on the poetry prompt at http://dversepoets.com/2012/02/23/formforall-writing-visual/ )
