It always feels like home
With the aroma
Of warm bread and cheese
Ginger, vanilla, and cinnamon
Filling up the rooms
With the scent of welcome
Spices wafting away
From slightly ajar windows
Baking, cooking, brewing
The clutter of pots, pans
Subduing voices
In the head
Ignoring bitterness
In the heart
Aspiring only to capture
Flavors that can conceal
This lingering starkness
Inside the white walls
Bashful frangipani
In the summer storm
Deliciously aromatic
Falling mellifluously
Flowers in final moments
Broken yet beautiful
A ghostwriter pensive
On the night shift
Traces a self-portrait
On burdened skies,
Under drooping stars
An artist’s dilemma
To tell one’s own story
Or script for others!
The morning air felt still
As if it carries the weight
Of another magenta night
Men crossing borders restless
Leaving behind the city lights
And little packets of memories
Strewn across echoing hallways
Holding scraps close to the chest
Passports, IDs, cards, and such
For what else are we but barcodes
In this unruly, ravaged world!
Inhale the fragrance
Of spring in abundance
An extravaganza of blooms
Poppies, tulips, and lilies
Invading coarse sidewalks
Boughs are laden with
The promise of fruits
Casting spells of hope
On a talisman of petals
Gently pulsating with life
Blue Pen Strokes 