My neverending journey begun
with the departure of those
who were expected to never leave.
Those words, I gently picked them
by my perturbed, itchy fingers.
The impression of emotions
were painted on the paper with
the mist of ink bearing the pain.
Piecemal syllables started
making sense to me
and a poet was born.
Gradually, my parol feelings
were replaced by pages sculptured
so aesthetically and a soul
so modal now inhabited the world
she always longed for,
where her fancies came true,
where 'she' could come true.
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