A Sense of Yearning

"I watch my daughter place the flowers Over me; wipe a tear, and smile; The smile, more effulgent than the flowers, Lingers on; The smile matters; The smile that can alter the scent of death. Not a Sunday she has missed, ever; Not a Sunday when I haven’t watched her sit By me, and talk about the love of her life And smile demurely; I wish she knew I listened to her; I wish she knew how I Loved to see her in the lovely yellow frock And how I wish she hadn’t coloured her locks; I am alive, now, for I watch her fall asleep into The bosom of womanhood; I am just Invisible, to the eyes that still carry tears; Death is the finality; This I had known and believed; The decisiveness in it; the conclusiveness; But in death did I realise the worth of living; And that none in the world mattered, but The ones who call me back.” “My daughter, if you are listening, I shall never be Too asleep to watch you run your fingers Over the name of your father; I see the same moon, the same stars In the

The woman beckoned to the phantasmal apparition That stood by her bed, watching in pity, her weary eyes In desperate need of a long sleep sans the anguish; She looked at him, and a smile broke its way out From the vicious corners of her horizon-less world; In the ghostly figure she searched frantically For the pair of eyes that had once housed The promises, the cures, and an enormous castle of sand; But darkness was all that stared back. The woman pulled the blanket down, and looked At her son, by her side, asleep in the shade of tranquillity. The silhouette bent over his son, and the woman Felt a soft puff of cold breath kiss her skin. And then from within the shadow of a man once alive Came the  whisper, in a voice awfully bruised, "I wanted to watch him grow." His fingers reached the woman's teary eye, but All he could do was pull more tears out; Only then did his eyes fall upon his medal; The medal of honour, they called it; It lay on the table Wi

As I variegated the lazuline sky with a rainbow And painted the greens of the lush plantations I watched you, my better creations, joke and laugh While you were washing the colours off my canvas. Your ideas have become the grunge, which Now smiles all over my crimsons and blues. Oh, for whom did I paint this earth, child? Why did I induce the fire of reason in you? Can my tears ever absolve your sins, or Cleanse my anguish off my ripped flesh? Say who is, if you aren’t my own child? I don't want you to crown me a halo of lies , But sit and weep a little with me tonight, will you?

In the face of suffering she was longanimous. By the river she sat, embracing her agony And waited for the little boat to emerge, like The demure bee from within the beauteous petals. Her impregnable belief to see him, on the boat, Waving at her, made her roots go deep. She waited for the tides to run quiet and calm For just one day; and the skies to shine like her hope; Her young heart aged by the river, counting Ripples from every pebble she threw; but it was A river; ripples seemed to be in their usual rush. Summer changed to winter, winds turned cold; Leaves grew impatient and kissed the moist earth. She grew old waiting, but the boat was still a dream. The curtains were undulating, asking her to get up; And saying that maybe the land was too far; Or maybe the tides were too fast; The truth her eyes bled at the thought of was The boat was never destined for a homecoming; Neither was her wait destined to see an end;  Perhaps the boat was