.

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Growing up feels like a paradox.
With each day passing by, we become better and new but also many moments that shaped us are left behind unintentionally.
Now various responsibilities hold each of us so tightly that we long for our childhood which was comparatively better altogether or atleast in some aspects.
I'm trying not to be a cynic even though each day the temptation grows.
I don't know if the world has abandoned its hues or is it just me being unable to see everything as vividly as before.

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Each embrace a clock of tired despair,
Echoes of loss pull through my hair.
Your voice, a flood’s unyielding tide.
And here I stand, in your arms,
Inviting collapse to reach my heart.

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Beneath the pallid moon,
A castle looms in deep shadows.
In moonlit halls, as midnight's silence calls,
A symphony of death is sweetly spun.
High on the evocative aroma of crimson roses,
In a velvet cloak, he leads the dance of death.
Each step a tale, each turn a heart's implore,
The echo of his steps in silence thrills the crumbling stones,
Eternal chaconne, he dances with vanity.



His eyes, two burning coals in darkened halls,
And fangs that gleam against the moonlight,
He revels in the beautiful lure of the curse bestowed upon him,
A moment where yearning and death collide, marked by shadowed grace,
Because darkness weaves what light could never.
Eternal chaconne, he dances with acquiescence.
He made a home out of this darkness and wynorrific ruination,
And his heart, became a shrouded void, with longing unfulfilled.

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Detached from it all, I find solace here,
In quiet moments, where feelings retreat.
No highs to chase, no lows to fear or succumb,
Just a quiet space where peace might begin.
The edges of pain soften and blur,
Emotions muted, distant, like echoes in mist.
No need to engage, no need to defer,
To the tumultuous dance of joy or the
clenched-fist twist.
No heartache's sting, no tears to be shed,
Just a gentle hush, a muted sigh.
A hesitant pause, a temporary death.
Unburdened by sorrow, by joy's sweet demand,
I drift, untethered, upon this calm strand.
In this quiet cocoon, where shadows blur,
I linger, weightless, a feather's soft whir.

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How to be without failing?
The bloom without the binding ache.
A question mirrors back at dusk,
quiet whispers of what could be.
The rhythm of trees, unbent, calls,
while I count breaths—fumble like light.
In the labyrinth of why, I trace,
fingers grazing, mapping the air.

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And my life, for better or for worse,
Is nothing but a constant cycle of
sketching and erasing myself.

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What a cruel epochal shift,
From dancing in my sestets,
my diamantes,
my sonnets and my odes,
To now standing still in the
epitaphs of elegies,
lamenting the
friendship's mortality,

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Infinite hues of hope paint the sky's canvas
Amidst the chaos, a quiet revolution
I'll cradle the earth, my heart an atlas
For it holds my dreams without absolution
With each sunrise, a promise blooms anew
I'll embrace the fractures, nurture the scars
Amidst the wreckage, we'll reach for the stars
So I'll tether myself to this spinning sphere
And carry its weight, without doubt or fear.

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Forgiving the past, it no longer holds,
The power to define who I am now.
As I nurture myself, self-love blooms within.
I am enough, I solemnly avow,
In my own love, a lifetime unfolds.

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