You were born with wings.
And I was gifted with fins.
Would be beautiful, that bird's eye view.
But I missed out on the marine world too.

-

PERHAPS

Perhaps, someday, you will find me. You will find me in the scent of the mountains, when you will wake up in the lap of hills.
That day, as you will witness the first morning kiss of the snowy peak and the sun, your heart will melt, like how it did, when it met my smile,
for the first time.
You will then, hold your tea cup and stand in the balcony, to absorb the serenity, and soon, as you will feel the frosty breeze brushing your cheeks, you will close your eyes. You will veil your sight just to feel me holding your face with these chilly hands of mine, you'll hark back to.
And honey, you will smile.
And perhaps, that happy brook, you will take an evening walk with, will jog your memory with my loquacity and our laughter, just to fill your heart with a soothing bliss. And you will, again, close your eyes to take a deep breath, only to inhale this air, wearing my scent.
Just to feel my smile.

-

Took that flight, to drink the sky,
Apologies. Don't ask me "why?"
A feeling has been dwelling within,
The name of it, is still unknown.
For those gleaming eyes, put mine down,
The eyes which are not on me,
But on those birds, kissing the moon,
Why did these feathers break so soon?
No more tales, do I wish to tell,
As parts of them, have gone in vain,
Some chapters, I have sold to flame.
And left I am, with some ashes alone,
And an emotion that has been living within,
The name of which, is still unknown.

-

So here, I am willing to cook.
Taking a cup of hardwork with two cups of patience. Mixing it well till no lumps left. Then adding a glass of ecstasy with equal amount of kindness with a touch of chilly for balancing taste. After the flavours have started blending well, here I am sprinkling experience from time to time and letting it cook in the medium flame of hardship, till it leaves the colour of wisdom. Then turning off the flame, I am finally garnishing it with love.
And Voila! Aromatic new age is ready for the table.

-

Ah!! Soothing... Isn't it?
To see this radiance of moon, dancing, synchronising with  the beat of ripples, played by this pretty breeze as it runs over the water, playfully.. How it's not just the sky but also the land, that is untouched by this lovely poetry, this night is composing, nonchalantly.

-

Long way forward you have to walk,
Can I not mend the broken road,
Could I hike along to share some load?
Or to descry that lovely garden of roses?
The waking of moon flower,
When the sunflower dozes.
To hear the song of the brook at our halt,
Sitting under the canvas, counting our faults.
Feeling the bonfire that's calming the cold,
Gazing at the dark sky, soothing and bold.
The kiss of sun, folding the night behind,
Ushering us to the goal, we intend to find.
Then further we trek, we smile and talk,
Long way forward we have to walk.

-

On my table, lies the quill,
The unlid inkwell awaits my will.
My thoughts in mist,
Strolling in the woods,
To pick the leaves,
Trees had shed their hood.
For each leaf had its years to tell.
Let alone the quill, and leaf shall write.
It's journey silly or profound at height.
For I shall now hold the inked petiole,
Or has it held my hand, to revive it's soul?

-

URGE OF REVIVAL

The tempest does not seem to rest.
Sways me here, bends me there.
Stuck I am, the roots stretch deep.
Deep it grew, with the rush of time.

Autumn holds me posing dead
On the carpet of the leaves I shed.
The branches dead, the hollow me.
Do break me, as the frame no bold,
For I wish to wear a skin no old.

-

How could she be under the impression
Of finding herself in the nest,
When she was lost in the winds?

-

MIDNIGHT

She sits beneath the dark valvety sky, in a city that has fallen asleep, yet the song of the cricket still awake, breaking the ice in the shade of radiant white, pacifying the night.

Ah! With what ease are these hours of darkness waning the furious tides into gentle waves, as it's silence talks to hers and then how beautifully it drifts her to an aesthetic world where the spring never dies.

How it's compelling her to see the oddity of time, from her being a nyctophobic to nyctophile. Leaving her wondering about how the yellow no longer excites her and the black sees her eyes go wordy.

-