One morning you’re going to wake up and see that love is all around you.
That you’ve been looking for it in all the wrong places, and all the wrong sources.
There’s no saving Them, because Their hearts are cloaked in darkness, dark things, dark words,
But you, you’re the light,
You are a blinding glare, no ordinary person could ever directly look upon..
Your light is what the world needs right now, what They need right now..
So don’t keep waiting, don’t tug at the ropes of boats that try so hard to abandon the dock.
Let them go, let them sail with their forever discontented weight,
For your reddened palms need a break from that tight grip,
So let me say it again..
That love grows in the most unlikely of places, and let me tell you where,
In the nest of two black and white birds looking after their young,
It grows on every leaf, every tree, every vine, stone, and stream..
It blossoms when flowers come to life, it sets with the sparkling orange sun, and rises anew, light yellow and pink..
Love grows in the far off green mountains, and in the deep ant colonies, further beneath this earth,
Love is rain, love is stories written in books, hearts, souls, and smiles,
Love is kind, it’s forever content, its forever unparalleled and sudden, yet it’s always found..
he sat beside her, on the icy cold floor, cupping his palms, on her trembling face, holding it as if it were a tiny flame; a flame, neither fierce nor mild, like a heartbeat, and said nothing. in the remaining few seconds, which seemed like an eternity, she nodded over and over and over again, and burst into an uncontrollable sob. soaking his palms now, tears began to drip in small rivulets along his arms and made their way into God Knows Where.. like that, just like that, years of heartache flooded from her eyes, years of half-dying words, insecurities, and mistrust pushed their way out of her, and so she pressed her hands to her chest as if to pin down her heart which had begun to soar in its new found lightness.. just like that, good things had a peculiar way of coming back to her.
my mother built a swing when i was just a little girl of four, in red, green, and blue - painted t'was. and the colours were very pretty, when they shone in the sun. the winds ruffled my ponytails as i swung myself into the air. and i'd just sit there and swing, day after day, and sometimes even after darkness cloaks the hill, and before my mother cries: "it's time to get inside!" i wondered as i swung, how the moon too, swung itself with me. in the year i turned five, my mother gave me another, but this time, a sister, and not the merry-go-round i had made her pinky-swear to give me. this year i shall be twenty five, and the swing on the hill, twenty one, dear God, has it been so long? yet it stands so strong as if it were only built yesterday. although the colours of the swing have gone, and we, moved on, i visit my swing on the hill sometimes for therapy. because the old swing now has become such a sight to my burdened memory. time does fly, without so much of a flutter, and i guess that's how things are meant to be.
give the beggar your bus fare and come straight walking home. follow the white city's blackened maze of drains, and come straight walking home. on your way, you may, lean on to a placarded wall, and scan its art into your faulted soul, and you'll think there never really were a truer story told. you may sit with the dirty street rats on the cold iron railway tracks, but all you've heard is the wrong glory: their glory, not my story; their pride in pictures (with a couple of hashtags), not my pain! you'll be surprised if only you knew what fumes, what waste, what poison ran in our veins, all the while they pretended never to know. so we peopled this place with life and things for we had nowhere else to go. beside a mountain of waste and poisonous gas, we lived our lives here through. though the mountain of waste lay mounting each day, we had nothing else we could do, so one fateful day, after an auspicious pray, we sat about reveling in a festive day, until it was overcome by rotting corpses, for that mountain of waste went "BOOM". so the white city walls and the white city houses, the white city people and the white milk rice, turned gray, black, and blacker. the white city sighs and the white city tears came shooting down like spears on this New Year's Day, and with life and vigour they helped. of course i could say, what an ironic play these white city folk do wittingly (or otherwise) display.. but i wouldn't. so,i gave the beggar my bus fare and i came straight walking home, though my home that once stood on this blasted land lies crumbled all in all. so i stood on the ruins among a blinding glare coming from the white city folk doing their share.