Skip to main content

The Love Span


When love came with a bunch of flowers,
You were sleeping,
Of the tiresome classes and exams,
Not to disturb you,
She walked away
Deciding to visit you some other day.
But when she came the next day,
She saw the angry you at home,
For some trivial matter.
Afraid of confronting the furious you, she once again walked away.
But for three years,
She was busy braiding her hair
And cleaning her mirror
To go out with the new found love.
Love came back with untouched lips
Yearning for a kiss,
But you were busy to miss,
Entangled in the hands of some passer-by,
Who only offered you a month of redemption,
And left you with a broken heart.
When depression rented the rooms of your heart,
you hated yourself
For being a fool and desperate.
Love landed with suspicion
Of meeting you again,
But you carelessly opened the door and offered a coffee.
Love was not partial this time.
She sat at your living room for years,
With her belongings at the door
And your hands in her's.
Then you offered her your leftover love,
Which vanished the chasms
And banished your dark tenants of the heart.
Love turned your nights to days,
She sensed the little kid in you,
And stole your heart
And kept it safe with her,
Because you were so careless.
Love walked into your messy room
In glossy dress and ready kisses.
Love baked cakes at your salary hike,
She stood with her teary eyes to be consoled
When you caressed her with utmost care.
Your love became old and vulgar,
With little forms of you playing around a bald headed you.
Love walked out of your life before you,
She had performed her part well,
The audience were satisfied.
But you were still searching for
Something,
Under the coat,
Between the toys,
In the old garage,
Among the rack of clothes,
Unable to explain what you have lost,
You walked away to the churchyard
To gift a bunch of flowers,
For your old love.
Gazing at the engraving,
You smiled like an enlightened ascetic
And mumbled something,
And I heard a'thank you'.

A.C

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

I HAVE TO BE A STRONG LADY...

I have to be a strong lady.. I have to be a strong lady.. To overcome all the obstacles.. To fight against my lost love.. To fight against my fears.. To overcome my insecurities.. To stand for my love.. To stand for my strengths.. To  fullfill my dreams.. To  complete my bucket list.. To stand for my people.. To hold my head high up... To stand in my own feet.. To pen my own words.. To shop with my own money.. To help the needy.. I have to be a strong lady.. I have to be .. To survive.. To protest.. To protect my rights.. To walk at nights without fear.. To be drenched in the rain.. To overcome my frustrations.. To fight against the norms of the society.. To speak out my own words.. To sing loudly .. To dance freely .. To teach my conclusions.. To establish my own ideas.. To face the greatest threats.. I  have to be strong... Here I go with my shield of confidence, to bring back the hiding lights. And they call me a strong la...

A Second Thought

  Blankness engulfs me The thought of being dumb Decision pending... Grab my hand Take me away Away to the darkness Hell is being created here... I run to hide.. Hide beneath the blankets Goosebumps... Shiver... Fear... Owls... Houls... Blood... Tides... Thunder... Blinking lights... Black and White Steps... Gorges... Heart beats... Nightmares... Everything  transcends darkness... Orendaa!! Altar... Angels... Baby's breath... Laughs... Sunlight... Rain... Candles... Peace... Breath at last... Yes! Time to revamp my life. A.C

Of mothers, sarees and their grief

Mothers are often presented as the epitome of love in movies. The struggles, sacrifices and the quiet tiredness they carry are praised, even placed on a pedestal. But we rarely talk about their grief, the grief of unlived lives. Have you ever thought about the lives of these mothers before marriage and motherhood? Before all the giving began? So often, clad in their sarees, mothers cook and smile, clean and laugh. But is that all they ever wanted? Do they carry the weight of the shadows of their unlived lives? Many do, though they may never say it aloud. And they leave it behind for the happiness of the ones they love. I often feel that when they wipe sweat from their brows with the edge of their sarees, they catch the glimpse of their hidden grief. The loneliness and the neglect they receive, they tuck it away, fold it into the pleats of their sarees and smile again. Some may have once wanted to be doctors, teachers, dancers, writers, travellers. And even in their happiest moments, th...