I grew daisies and sunflowers in your heart and watered them all winters, only to lose them in the morphology of seasons.
In summer, Conundrums in the dreams of a poet, made me awake amidst the pragmatic promises that I made to the forbidden petals of your heart. Aromatic seeds of sunflowers still play with the colors of my polaroids, making them scented like the hyacinth of hope. Allegories dancing in the filters of sun rays, tear manuscripts describing love that resides in heart, making way for the meninges of my mind to steal some brimming emotions from the sonnets of John Keats.
In autumn, Leaves from the branches of hyberbole shred tears of acrylic world when the diastole of memories in the burnt gardens makes asynchronous season of falls with the opaque shadow of emotions from the clouds of a poet's heart.
In the anonymous season, Herbarium with sheets of emotions spray mercuric chloride on the few preserved specimens of the daisies I grew and I stained the petals of sunflower in the water bath to make them translucent with pain.
And when the winters arrive, I sit with some rose petals, adoring them for the thorns of reality they have, whose pricks make this bleeding heart home to a lot wandering love stories. Still the books of anatomy of life, play with the definitions of love that are decorated only in the albums of abandoned museums.
/ Anna Karenina decorates my nights in forgotten springs, when amnesiac alliterations wandering to water flowers feel drowsy under the wine of poetries. Cacophony from the cumulus clouds create coruscating sunshine amidst creepy nights of reality, making the blooming sunflower and daisies in the yard of lies, wilted with acid of purified definition./
@mirakee thank you so much for the POD! It's a real honour and a delight. And thank you for everyone who took a moment read this slice of history from my home town.
Hey, guys. I know it's been a while. Sorry, I couldn't read your magical pieces. University has started, so I won't be able to be here as frequently as I used to, but I'll definitely come around as soon as I get some free time. Thank you for asking @heartsease@fairytales_@asmita_chakraborty I was really touched by the gesture.
And a few words about the Fort. This is one of the most stunning vistas in Galle, Sri Lanka, which is incidentally, my home town. ________________________________________________
THE OLD FORT
The old Fort stands
By the edge of the coast
As the waves smash against
Her moss covered stone walls
Those proud greying walls
Worn smooth from centuries
The ruined battlements still remain
Nestled between the fallen towers
Where the canons used to stand
Oh, the cannons!
How the fort misses them
Her own majestic children
Now all tucked away
In the dusty alcoves
Of the unvisited museum
The clock tower is silent
It's bells haven't rung in years
The broken clock face
Where no one's eyes rest
What she wouldn't give
To hear the bells again...
To feel the resounding heartbeat
Of the footfalls of marching soldiers
Upon stone pavements of her skin
Of course she's heard that war is wrong
And maybe there's truth in that
After all, she still hasn't forgotten
The combined scent of blood and sweat
That soaked through her earth
A long, long time ago
But war has been her life
The only time she's felt alive
Her songs mingled with battle cries
Her soul flying along the crimson standards
Her own halcyon days
Written in the ink of battle
Now nothing remains
Of those glory days
Instead, there are crying children
And flustered mothers buying ice creams
The regal soldiers at attention
Replaced with flower filled pavements
And quaint little tea shops
The place where the squadron's flag stood
Rippling in the air with victory
Is now the backdrop
For the "#'@" selfies
The frame on the wall speaks to me In a language lost in memories Each picture seems like a treasury In a soundless void clad in mystery Nailed to the wall my thoughts reside Continually reliving the past In colour and sometimes black and white I marvel at the sharp contrast An occasion captured to live on forever A reminder of where I was A recollection of what else could have been A moment in time put on pause Pictures on the wall breathe anew Never ceasing to tell a tale These speaking walls provide comfort Even when all else fails There is a certain serenity in nostalgia That past we fondly left behind There is a happiness and pain in recollection Of happier and sadder times Woven slowly time meets the present On printed paper lives on my life I live precariously through these frames Always on the edge of memories’ knife