Why are we still scared of the dark?
Isn’t black inviting, drawing everything in..
There’s a certain mystery to it,
Concealing all things dark in it’s heart..
Making everything bright glow brighter…
There’s a black butterfly at my door,
Should I let it in?
Cursed is the one,
Who feels and feels deeply..
In a world, made of nothing
They walk around the streets,
Wearing perfume on their sleeves..
Looking to share everything but trust,
Laughing for hours but crying first..
Holding hands but shadows apart,
With bodies of stone and elastic hearts..
© Image courtesy: Fine art America
The color of your soul, is precisely what my darkness seeks..
The compelling strokes of your brush, creating wild ocean peaks..
These cravings that evoke me, more than I’d like to confess..
The touch of your fingertips, for my body is your canvas..
Born with lips so beautiful, but couldn’t utter a word..
Sitting for hours at the window watching the one-legged bird..
Bullied at the school for being so eccentric..
Abused by father for always being a skeptic..
On a mid summer holiday, escaping from the sun..
In grandma’s little cottage, he found a red violin..
They pushed him to the corners for his words were inapprehensible..
The more his fingers and the strings became inseparable..
A boy once running in circles for hours..
Found peace in his violin and the blooming of flowers..
They couldn’t understand him so he was segregated…
Not leaving him alone, now that his music was appreciated..
Closing all the doors behind, shutting out the universe..
All he wanted was the love he felt in singing a verse…
P.S. To all those young beautiful minds suffering from childhood Psychological disorders and the Autism spectrum.. Let’s try to stretch a hand towards them, before they lose faith in humanity and isolate themselves from a world full of opportunities.. Every child deserves to be loved and appreciated the way he is.
Image courtesy: Wandalin Strzałecki – The Violinist
On a moonlit night, listening to stories untold…
Or a warm summer morning, like melted gold..
The rusty old shoes, the same necklace of pearls..
The same old songs and her hair in perfect curls..
In the deafening peace of a snowy winter night..
The clock ticked louder, reminding of it’s might..
But everything at the sea was forever changing..
Change is life, thus the old man loved kayaking..
For years I tried,
in the middle of the night..
At a lonely lake…
On a summer morning..
With a cup of tea…
Looking through pictures..
Going through your books..
Smelling your shirt..
Giving away your bike..
but failed to put you