#35, To a humble flower

You are the very force of spring.
Your smile as brilliant as the breaking dawn
Awakening the plains with life;
Your eyes as deep as a bear’s den
Roused from its slumber, it lets out a lazy yawn
A powerful force from the dark;
Your eyelids a bevy of swans
Batting their wings gracefully;
Your cheeks are the flush of fruits
A bed of fragrance, a feast of life;
Your lips, like the gentle kiss
Of a slow-falling petal against a still pool;
Your hair is a wild stream that dances,
Falling and spraying across great heights;
Your body as lovely as the rolling hills
Filled with both danger and adventure.
I will disrobe myself of my wintry cloak
And clothe myself with your delight.

#34, Once

We were once friends, you and I.

I’ve tried to remove every trace of you. Every scent, every scene, every image, every note of every song, every little thing. Maybe I fear you, because I sometimes find myself rummaging in my head to recall the life you built with me, a life now reduced to dust. But sometimes, you crop up; a rogue image, a little memory, or even a lonely drive back on the same road with the same CD playing – and they come back. You come back.

But it has gotten better. When previously you would ravage my mind with throes of sorrow, now you are a faded whisper. It feels alien, like I am living another life as another person without you, as I try to remember how those memories that meant so much slowly crumble into sand.

Maybe it is because it was another life, and I have become figuratively reborn. Maybe I really died when you left me.

We were once friends, you and I. It is such a strange thing to say, because now we aren’t friends anymore. Even if a part of you lives on in me, and I in you…

…what ‘we’ were does not exist. At least not in the present. And for that, I am grateful. Once, long ago, you were, and now, you are not.

We were once friends.

#33, Migratory

Soft, migratory hearts,
Their colourful, capricious plumes caress like a drizzle,
They flutter and flee before a monsoon spell,
Waiting for the storms to quell.
Is it their departure that douses the land with destruction,
Or is it their gentle natures, fair complexions,
Perfection;
Immiscible with torrential trials, inevitable squalls
That cause them to fly;
To avoid inundation,
They perch from comfort to comfort,
Reaping the fruits not of their labour,
While we remain rooted, buffeted by elements.
They labour for vanity, we labour in vain;
Our seasons of love always ending in rain.