My broken heart, an artifact
In a spectacular box intact
Lying in tarnished pieces
With crumbling petals of roses
A Babushka doll, now faded
Holding a ring, long discarded
Stale memories wrapped
In tissue paper yellowed
Bury them all with me
When my tired soul flees!
In the darkest hearth of my soul
It rears it’s ugly head again
This despondency of
Being different;
Burning realms of loneliness
Engulf me in flames
I blister, bleed;
Sweat, tears of memories
Deeply impressed lies
Like an intricately coiled
Venomous snake in my bed!
It will not hurt
What you don’t know?
Truth wrapped in muslin
Pulsates gently
Waiting to birth
To sound the death knell
Of sweet ignorance
Blissful innocence
As the soul soaks in
Lies and tales
Appeasing the mind
But stealing the heart
Of the pure joy of knowing!
You are the book
Nestled on my chest
Heaving in deep sleep
A story embedded
In my thoughts, as I go
About daily chores
Impatient to trace
Inquisitive finger tips
On gravely carved scripts
Turning over pages
Revealing secrets
That made me shudder
In anticipation of none other
But the distant momen when
I will curl up with you in bed
The quiet I usually crave
Patiently waits for me
At the corner of my bed
A pillow carries perfume
Of freshly washed hair
Mildly stained sweet sweat
Of long summer nights
Wrinkled sheets beckon
Hiding a half-open book
And a peeping bookmark hints
It may well be time to rest
The quiet I usually crave
Patiently waits for me
At the corner of my bed
Pillows carry perfume
Of freshly washed hair
Mildly stained with sweat
Of long summer nights;
Wrinkled sheets beckon
Hiding a half-open book
A peeping bookmark hints
It may well be time to rest
Blue Pen Strokes 