We are born in this world, with no knowledge, lessons or regrets. It's with our experiences that we acquire, that stay with us until death. The one who takes birth, is also bound to take their last breath. With every person that goes, it's their memories that are left.
The soul may have departed long ago, and the body may have ceased to exist. But it's the difference they make, in the lives of people that stays. It's the way they influence people, that keeps them in hundreds of memories. It's the way they embrace their mistakes, and the impact they leave on Earth, that keeps them alive for centuries.
Perhaps, death is a stage, that cannot be avoided. So this poetess wishes to be remembered, in a simple but certain way. Since all that arrive, are destined to depart, and all that make bonds, are fated to die apart.
I wish to leave my essence, in this universe, the way a rose, leaves its fragrance, in a lover's soul. I wish to leave an effect, like the pleasing petrichor, that accompanies the Earth, with the first rain, after days of dry weather.
Do not cry when I die, as if it's the last goodbye. I'll be greeting you, in the joy of my dear ones, in their warm smiles. I will meet you, when you take a glance, at the lofty sky. I will meet you, as hope that shines, in someone's eyes.
I'll be there always, on both good and bad days. Maybe as rainbows tomorrow, or as tiny droplets on a rainy day.
I may not be present as a body, but the nature will speak of my presence. For the birds will sing meticulously, of my eternal essence.
I'll comfort you as warm sunshine, after series of cold evenings. I'll console you as light breeze, in the budding season of spring.
I'll be there to remind you of me, in the light of my meaningful poetries. I'll be there to help you breathe, when you're tired of miseries. I'll be there to remind you of me, as the season of autumn brings fallen leaves.
When you're engulfed with fear, and surrounded by grief, I'll sit as a butterfly on your shaking hands, and heal you with relief.
I'll be there to wipe your tears, as the soft gust of wind. or at times of dawn and dusk, when life refuses to be kind.
When you stand in a field of dandelions, with the wish to see me, I'll fall as a petal on your teary eyes, and send you a sign that I'm happy.
When you see the sun rise, and wish to fall into my embrace, I'll ask the sun to shine brighter, and indicate my gentle presence.
When you look at the sky playing with pretty colors, and the birds racing in airy clouds, When you hear a nightingale singing harmonic songs, When you look at a flower emerging from the ground.
When you count the stars, and find solace by the moon, I'll be sitting right by your side, to admire the night sky with you.
When you work your hardest, and achieve milestones, I'll be watching from above, and proudly smile at you.
I'll be there to hold your hand, while the nature sends you my wishes. I'll be there to help you stand, when you lose hold of your spirit.
Remember me as happiness, Remember me in my words, as I leave you with my poetries, and the gift of light and love.
Read the words of this poetess, as she leaves a part of herself, in her words as life, and in sunsets, for as long as this world is left. ~sk
Someday, somewhere, I'll see you again. in the sky of divinity, and the certainty of union. Someday, somewhere, I'll meet you again, in the land of peace, in a land so surreal.
It's been years since I last saw you, It's been years since I last heard your voice, It's been years since you left me forever, It's been years since I talked to you, for one last time. If only I had known, that you won't be here anymore.
If only I could have realized, that I'd see your face for the last time. We probably would've talked for a longer time, if I knew I was fated to say goodbye.
I could've thanked you, for all the care you ever showed to me. I could've thanked you, for the littlest gestures of empathy. I wish you would've known, that they were never unnoticed. I wish you would've known, that they form the warmest aspect, of my grieving memory.
My memory still reminds me, of our final day together, when we sat on a swing, and applauded the pleasant weather. We sat mesmerized, in the awe of clouds, miles away from the heartbreaking truth, that you'd soon be a part of them too.
I remember you being afraid, that I'd find it boring to be with you, If only you knew, that it was never true.
Now I long for just a few seconds, of your safe presence. as you watch me from above, in the protection of heaven.
I still sit on that swing, to believe that you exist. I still think of that last moment, and cry in your sweet remembrance.
With weakness of grief in my heart, and strength of hope in my soul, I wish to erase the day you breathed your last, from my memory as a whole.
I feel tears welling up in my eyes, as I fondly think of you, and a butterfly sits on my shaking hands, as though you're here to tell me, that you're watching me too.
You pat on my back, for remaining strong and making it through, as the aura feels familiar, and the warm wind blows. It's as if you try to wipe my tears, and give me a sign that you're near.
Now I patiently wait, with the wish to meet you again, as I think of the good old days, and hope to reunite with you, somewhere far away, in that blue sky we used to admire, or the land of clouds and angels.
Oh my dearest friend, I hope to see you again. We'll talk of all things left incomplete, peacefully enjoying each other's company, in the surreal land of heaven, when their won't be fear of separation, we'll reunite when the universe calls me, in the abode where you now reside, we'll proudly smile and celebrate, when I'll see you again. ~sk
I often wonder how, the first moments, in heaven feel. Do the deceased, deeply anticipate, a soulful meeting, with their loved ones, that they had once lost on Earth?
When people are, at the verge of death, and just a few seconds away, from their final farewell, Do they ardently hope, to descend into heaven? Is it the memories of their lifetime, that they hold within, the depths of their hearts, as tokens of selfless love.
Heaven to my eyes, is a land so surreal. A place where two souls intertwine, in the name of a much awaited union.
Where devastated mothers, that once lost their beloved children, smile brighter than the stars, upon realizing they're not so far.
Where parents that long for their child, finally get to reunite. Where dogs wag their tails, over the blissful sight, of their empathetic owners, whom they saw as family.
Where a little girl runs to receive, a warm hug from her grandma, while the grandma stands with open arms. Where the entire aura calls for nothing, but the flame of love being rekindled.
Where a poet still composes, soulful poems for its lover. Where a bubbly girl still dances in a garden, and inhales the rosy scent of fresh petals.
Where the sky vividly flourishes, in sweet celebration of a fated union, of long lost soulmates. Where two lovers get to fulfill, their wish of uniting on the other side.
Where the language of love, is taught to all. and the lesson of peace, is beautifully preached. Where the soft, white feathers, of doves and angels symbolize, the divine union, of separated and broken families.
Where an aged couple gets to reunite, after one left the other too soon. The little kids that ran in playgrounds, now race against each other, in the fields of airy clouds and a tranquil sky. The enthusiasm remains, but the abode changes.
Where the bodies become souls, but the essence of humanity remains. A land faraway from the darkness of evils, where the light of harmony prevails.
As the gates to heaven are unlocked, and several souls begin their afterlife. The wholesome echos of ecstasy are heard, followed by giggles of pure innocence, and screams of absolute joy.
Where everyone's story, seems to have a happy ending. Where no soul is required, to be bounded by suffering. ~sk
To be loved by a poet or to be loved by a writer is such a dreamy affair. The simple pleasure of being aware that everytime someone pays homage to what a writer wrote for its lover, it would also mean that their love is being reborn as newly blossomed flowers, through people breathing life into them with every read.
The purity of the fact that their love would be cherished for eternity, with people getting inspired to establish a connection as divine as theirs, followed by the infinite possibilities of their bond being celebrated and remembered, as the lamp of everything they've written in their lifetime continues to propagate light over their acts of selfless affection, solely dedicated to their lovers, is a valid reason in itself for the same.
The tendency of a writer to introduce its lover to the world in the most surreal ways, is what makes falling in love with them so special. Their exceptional ability to keep their lovers alive through their poetries for as long as the world lives is what sets them apart from the rest of mankind.
Each time a piece of their work is read, the person behind their creation is honoured. This happens in such a way that a reader who may have never met the writer's beloved, is also prompted to develop a sense of profound respect for them. The idea behind this tends to be so philosophical that it may not resonate with many at times.
A poet sees every action of its beloved as an opportunity to compose hundreds of poems about them, owing to which, several heartfelt compositions come to existence. That's the beauty of an artist and the thing with passionate creators. They love with such heart and soul, that their potential can never be measured. ~sk
I wonder what the empty rooms speak, Do they talk of merry moments, or some wistful memories? When the people are gone, and the walls are all by themselves. Is it the giggles of happiness, or the screams of terror they represent?
They say the walls can hear, I wish they could talk too. I wish we were reminded of our memories, that we once made in those rooms.
When a family lived in that building, the house was called a home. As soon as that home was abandoned, in deafening silence the rooms stood.
The place turned empty, so did the entire ambience. The place that once felt lively, now lay deserted amidst complete silence.
The walls that heard our cries of joy, give evidence of our dark phases too. The room where we celebrated yesterday, is now a witness of all we've been through.
The rooms that rejoiced with us, have also seen us shedding tears. The walls that heard our silent sobs, have also seen us conquering our fears.
The walls that saw us dancing alone, to the tunes of pure happiness, have also seen us weeping in pain, in the embrace of solitary blankets.
The walls that surrounded us, when we were breaking apart, have also seen us grow from, broken beings to bravehearts.
All those hours we spent, by weeping our hearts out, are now engraved for eternity, as clocks on walls of the abode, we've bid our final farewells to.
Does a house grieve, in sweet remembrance of whom it once belonged to? Does a forsaken sight think, of people it gave shelter to
People may change places, but the memories stay, in the depths of hearts and walls built long ago, as rich history encased in vintage books.
The feeling of every moment felt, and the eternal proof of every occurrence, continues to live on even in empty rooms, It's the people who go, leaving their essence in places they bid adieu to. ~sk
I look at the stars, And think of someone I love. I look at the moon, And think of someone, I wish to meet soon.
I talk to the moon, As if it's someone, I haven't embraced in ages. I glance at the moon, As if the one that I'm thinking of, Is at the other side, Thinking of me too.
I look at the sky at night, And welcome a peaceful state of mind. The darkness that once scared my soul, Now only makes me feel calm and composed.
There's something so intriguing, About the way a night feels. The serenity that spreads, The silence that surrounds.
The stillness that reigns, The volumes it speaks. The tranquility it offers, When the whole world sleeps.
The freedom that makes it possible, To dream of all things imaginary. The way it creates the kind of ambience, To craft my supreme works of artistry.
The way it offers comfort, To sleep beneath the moonlight. The way it envelops my anxious heart, Into the folds of its serenity.
The hour of the moon feels like, A reunion with a soulmate. To invite your old mate, Over a warm cup of coffee, And reminisce about all things great. The way it allows my tired heart to breathe, The hours of the stars are a blessing indeed. ~sk
Gone are the days when love was a modest display In this world of modern romance Old fashioned love is what I crave
When love was pure and well expressed People were immersed in selflessness Take me back to the vintage days when men wrote letters with pure intentions When lust didn't attract lovers but the soul made connections
When people portrayed their feelings by slow dancing in the dark And waiting for the rain or moonlight to swing in each other's arms when gestures were as simple as bringing each other fresh flowers when no grudge or opinion could tear two souls apart
When lovers could share words while lying in the middle of grass when lovers could have heartfelt conversations and spend the night by counting stars
When men would open car doors for their women and the women would stay with their men till the end
When lovers could spontaneously start dancing in the middle of the street When reading books was a love language and they didn't mind a date in the library
When bonds were founded by loyalty And eyes spoke of nothing but affection When lovers locked eyes that reflected sincerity and falling in love was not interrupted by imperfections
From sharing an umbrella as it downpours to showing how much one cares When people lived and let people live in peace No evil eye would ever disrupt an affair
When relationships were defined and people could die for the love of their lives When men would fight in wars with all their might and send letters to their lady loves Through pigeons in disguise
When people would love without an expectation of reciprocation when they would not fear one sided love but admire their beloved with sheer dedication They knew how to let people go in the name of true love when people remembered to be understanding to establish an authentic connection
When men would keep photographs of their ladies in their wallets just to feel their presence even when miles away as a symbol of their love and its soulful display
When those in love would treasure their sweethearts when both ladies and gentlemen would make the first move without hesitation
When she would smile and he would see his world light up When he would stare in her soul and she would see the whole universe When she would sleep and he would stare as if he had seen a jewel extremely rare
When a strand of hair would cover her face and he'd lightly use his hands to sweep it away When such little gestures would mean the world When such subtle pleasures were pleasing enough
When people could connect in a single sight the way long lost lovers project an urge to reunite
When expensive luxuries didn't intrigue people even a coffee date or a view of city lights worked just fine when every gesture came from the depth of the heart from an inharmonious song to a poem that didn't rhyme
when lovers brought out the best in each other and glaring at the moon was the best romance when company was the only thing that mattered and they stayed across borders fondly thinking of each other while playing songs on an antique stereo in the memory of a divine reunion
When holding hands would give butterflies The time when love was innocent yet full of intensity and life
The time when men would dress nicely for a date and bother to be polite and ask for permission when love songs genuinely made sense when lovers cared to become best friends
when going for walks was as romantic as going for movies or being intimate when making each other feel safe and homely was much more heartwarming and important
When people would see the world together and go for dinner dates They'd laugh wholeheartedly in ecstatic moments and cry over each other's shoulders at times of heartbreak
When they'd hold onto a single soul Till the end of time When soulmates would stay bounded Till their knees would age and sights would weaken When they'd stay together until death would part them When people would express love by playing musical instruments
Oh to be an old soul with a dream to grow old with a twin soul in this era of modern love I wonder if I'll ever find someone That comes as destiny and stays as the fate of the stars All I wish for is a vintage romance All I dream of is a vintage romance ~sk
I can never get over the obsession With the sunsets, each time i watch The sky wearing different colours Before and after the sun goes down I feel like my dreams are being painted With the colours of hope that there is Always a new beginning.
I can never get tired of writing poetries It feels like home to me where pages Are the walls i spend hours and hours Inking onto them because these seemed Safest to share my heart out with. Each wall of my home or i would say A page of my diary knows about the moment That gave me the actual happiness and about The smile hiding the pain.
I can never thank enough to the life I've been blessed with, it has showered The love upon me which is irreplaceable, It has shown me the times, memorable. It has taught me the lessons, unforgettable. It has given me everything one could ever ask for.
there's a child crying in the drain nearby. black skin and history, he cries and cries under a sky that looks the same as his sides. he looks for a mother to feed him, she lies camouflaged in the rubble. her breasts - an incomplete victory.
a pile of garbage lay near him, at times they whisper like the living, then resort to bangles and cutlery packed away haphazardly for an untimely escape. they hiss at him when he cries, like snakes devoid of venom slowly succumbing to subdued pangs of hunger. their country is at war and homes, a neonatal memory growing distant every second. they clutch at their guts that now speak the language of silence, the war has invaded every aspect of their existence. bread and butter - a novel history.
the child keeps crying; the last laughter of home lay exhausted on the edge of his underdeveloped yet withering memory, his squalls grow weaker every second, he gasps for the tragic air demanding a last vision of his mother. he can't hope, he's too young for that; he can only cry. so he cries and cries until he's gone, until he's one of them, silence, death, dust, a forgotten memory. are all that remains - of him and them.
My poems are the aftertaste of the earth's kiss with rain, they smell of petrichor that me and my past lover inhaled in while getting drenched in word-shower. My poems taste of his breaths on my tongue, of his reminiscence, of memories that lacked love and kept mourning every hour.
My poems are the snippets of me, they are etched with every inch of my existence that no-one can trace except him, the one who digged my skin word by word. Now what I'm is a thunder-storm that'd erupt out the ways he loved me and the ways he didn't as the aftermath of a tasteless heartbreak savoured by the hearth.
My poems are the rose-beds for fallen hearts, they carry his name in whimsical spells like the sirens song that laments over loss of someone beloved to me. I'm the snow addressed to the hushed chimneys and my poems are frozen timelines that witnessed the fall of our love like any jet aircraft in warzones being crashed to jump off its enslaved destiny.
My poems are salt that my mother forgets to add after water to the soup that she makes to bring me back from the city of memories that I've been walking barefoot. I'm afraid to tell but she already knows I'm bruised and I reek of loss, I write poems to rub salt on my wounds and I lick words to escape out of love, love that once tasted like honey and fruits. ~Purva