Slowly, a part of us died
like a city burning
with the October sunset.
As we became an empty shell,
A casket of dead dreams.
And with the dimming moon
we faded away like a memory
buried six feet under,
beneath perfumed metaphors
and decaying ache.
Dancing on guilty feet,
our hearts carried the weight
of lukewarm goodbyes,
and half baked closures.
Our loneliness
is a memory of a barefoot dawn
Hanging on a clothesline
Fading.
Withering.
Haunting.
Like ghosts of forgotten poems
And tragic love stories.
And everything that spells your name
became a tender memory
that forever glows
in a city where the sun never sets.

-

'What is love?'
The sky once asked the sea.
The sea replied,
'Love is when you melts yourself into drops to meet me.'
The sky blushed and got the answer she wanted to hear.

-

~WAR~

I am just another unrecognized
face in a crowd of muted
silhouettes, giving away
dreams and holding
to every ounce of
strength behind these trenches.
The hue of my face
From misty pumpkin shade,
turns to red luscious raspberry.
The quivering pulses flicker
and waves of misery shrouds
with half-wakened ashes
and fully-gnawed deathbeds
while oohed and aahed with
screams, weeps and phantoms
but still waiting for some
yellow tulips to caper
on the courtyards of demises.

-

And when the moon whispers a good-bye in the ears of pastel silvers, it hugs the night to a beautiful sunrise.

-

If poems could speak,
they'd tell us
to stop swathing them
with melancholy,
to stop romanticising
every toxic emotion,
to stop breathing pain;
they'd tell us
to start living in metaphors
of hope and strength,
to reminisce
the halcyon days-
wide smiles and wild feet,
to remember
that it's okay to feel pain,
to hurt, to break down and fall
but it's not okay
to get carried away
with the ache,
there's a lot to discover ahead,
a road full of miracles
waiting to be unfolded.

-

If flowers could speak,
they'd tell us
to stop plucking
their wings
in the name of love,
to stop pressing them
between verses and poetries
only to be withered away,
like another sad story;
they'd tell us
to start appreciating
things before they wilt away;
to breathe freely,
take in the fragrance of life
and let them too.

-

when I realize that I called a same aged person as 'di'.

-

A shirt,
a tee,
a pair of jeans,
or the pj'z I sleep in.
I don't give a damn
about my apparel
until I'm trying to
Impress,

Myself

-

Rima

-

©farmida_aman

-