Vulnerability

It was lying dead on the road;
Crushed and crumpled,
All worn and torn.
Was it chosen and plucked,
Only after a while, to be thrown?

It was a saga of love and untiring devotion;
To be plucked to spread joy and warmth;
To be stripped off to decorate homes;
To be a part of the bouquet to send good wishes,
For happiness, health and forever well-being.
Nothing less, but the best it was;
Personification of "love",
Was no one else's task;
And that was the reason,
For the terrible fate it saw.

I picked up the remains of,
Whatever was left;
The fragrance now,
Being forced to dirt and dust.


I passed by a plant,
No more than a thin trunk;
Once the flowery abode,
Was now nude and bare.

What was still left,
After the ravaging theft,
Was the abundance of thorns.
They stood haughtily,
Mocking the gentility;
Pricking any hand,
That threatened their stability.
The sharp stinginess,
And personification of "hate",
Was what kept them,
Safe from harm and hurt.


Stark contrast it was,
Flowers - strewed apart,
Thorns - no one dared to touch.
The only question it raised,
Why is love more vulnerable than hate?

Traces of You

"My past was glorious,
Coz I had not met you.

My future is gonna be wonderful,
Coz I will soon forget you.

My present, though, is a rough patch,
Chequered by traces of you."


These were the words,
Etched on the walls of his heart.
Reading which,
In a moment, her world fell apart.
"Welcome" was a distant dream,
Even the "Goodbye" was so harsh.

Eddies of Wind

I craved for a gentle breeze,
To waft the freshness of air,
Through me;
To rejuvenate myself,
From the worries and tangles;
Relax for a moment,
And be prepared for,
More to handle.

What struck me, instead,
With a swooshing sound,
Was whirling dust,
In eddies of wind.
Left me jarred;
Gifting, what others discard;
And kept me wondering,
At how salve turned into abrasives.

But there I was up again,
Even the next day;
Making myself vulnerable,
For the play.

'Ifs' and 'Buts'

Its always there,
No matter you land where;
The 'ifs' and 'buts',
Make you wonder, and stare.

It stirs you with its glow,
Like  a flame of light,
You know you cannot hold;
For that light,
Would no longer be bright,
If you capture it with your might.

It surprises you with its calm,
Like a serene ocean,
Playing its charm;
But you know you cannot jump in,
For that itself would,
Break the rhythm of the divine.

It mesmerizes you with its fragrance,
Like a fresh flower,
In full bloom;
But you know you cannot pluck it,
For that would turn it,
Forever, into gloom.

Such is the fate of our wishful fantasies;
'I wish....',
'If only....',
And many more like these...

Deep down you know,
Its not going to happen;
For good or bad,
Unable to fathom.

But what's the harm,
In wishing and aspiring;
If nothing else,
You are living that dream,
In your heart, already.

A String of Memories

A string of memories,
Adorns the song of my past;
Whenever struck,
A special one surfaces up.


The happy ones,
Remind me of the times;
I laughed and danced,
And swung in your arms.

Walking down that lane,
Which was once a frolicsome terrain;
Now makes me nostalgic,
Of those good old golden days.
Brings tears in my eyes;
Tears of joy, for I lived those moments;
Or of the pain, for its over and bygone,
No longer there, to hold on.


The sad ones,
Remind me of the times;
I struggled in troubled waters,
Without a savior to obviate.

Walking down that lane,
Which was once dark and grim;
Now leaves me bewildered,
With reminiscences of grey.
Should I be sad for those harrowed days;
Or be happy to,
Emerge stronger since they came,
And now, are left behind in the lane.


Treasured is this musical memoir,
Every note plays a unique memory;
Happy or sad,
Those are all mine;
The ones I have lived,
Through the passage of time.