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Paid Content

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My grief is my grandmother,
who falls asleep with her
mythology book in her hand
and wakes up with rage
if she doesn't find the book
in her hand, with her
forefinger right in the page
she was reading.

She knows where she left the story,
she also knows she'd fall asleep.
Yet she yells for her book, with that selfish love,
for the same story she already knows
the way it would end.

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Before you go,
would you please let me know...

whom I am gonna call my home?
whom I should call on those sleepless nights
when I am all alone?
whose name I should mumble in my sleep,
how I should overcome your loss, this grief!
Just how am I supposed to live now,
with whom should I share my vow?

Before you go,
would you please let me know...— % &

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It's always the night that gives some relief,
It has been more igniting to have such believes.
The light always plays with the memories of my past,
And the journey is written on the petals that lasts.
It is better to be helpless and never sleep,
Than digging for the answers submerged in the Deep.
You lose the site and the pieces will melt,
The lessons you learnt and the grief you felt.

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This grief
will be forgotten
in due time,
until
a new grief comes,
fills its cracks
(made by the
passage of time)
and brings it
back to life,
to bring you back to
death
once again.

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She kept herself away from the world to grieve alone,
refused all the lending shoulders she was offered to cry on.
She didn't want anyone to intrude into her misery,
'cause she preferred to let her story be a mystery.

Moon listened to all her stories;
She was entangled in her own queries.

He smiled at her from heaven
to make her feel his presence!

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Suppressed love turns into grief.
Suppressed grief turns into anger.
Such anger is always misdirected and full of entitlement.
And such lives are lies.

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