Patience. Peace. Prayer.
A whisky saline fragrance gushes through
As your feet parade through those fine grained fragmented pillows of beige
Pinks and oranges swell in the midst of cottony mist
A lingering taste of freedom - perfectly piquant, a little sweet 

Another leisure walk of respite
Perhaps knowing you've made it. 
About four reasons to believe you did.

Tints to tones. 
A familiar sense of comfort 
the grasp of childhood strokes 
Here is freedom
Your path is carved
Now knowing your way, you take to your wings
Fly, fly high and blend with those pinks and oranges

Perhaps winning is never the end
It's finding your way
There is fulfillment with goals
but a sweeter accomplishment 
the aftertaste of tiramisu
that comes with clarity. 

So fly, knowing your way
They'll be there. They're happy
Your presence forever
Resonating. Reverberating. 

- Bhavana R



Three swords, a sheet
Swords of contempt, beholding passion, nefarious
A fleeting moment - a pinch of integrity 
Oh, the delusion of that fictitious integrity
Never was. 
Grey visions, blurred morbid high pitched screech, undying
Bested nevers, under smobre skin, defied
The lusturous sharp edges run smoothly 
brazenly rip the white sheet in one fine go 
Stills still grey, a deafening scream swallowed by vaccum
Metallic clatters over the mum
The sheet ripped, thrown with several cuts 
endure folded slits, crumpled edges and butchered blots
Divulged to me one more time
That swords don't stitch but are made to slay 


Remember that night, you showed me the fire?
Two flames farsight burning their heart’s desire
The end of summer, under overcast blankets of grey on black
One outshined the other – flickering, calm and intense
My mind radiated the alloy bright orange, failing to conceal.
Tonight the flames beam bigger
and carry a passion wilder
It’s been ten days since the end of summer
As each day the fall gets a tad bit colder
and I tender and tender, implore a smoulder
Love, how much must the flames grow bolder
Until you take me back to summer?
To that beam between chuckles, under the Hercules Constellation
The flame embellishes the way I call out to you
Louder each day in the midst of shivers
It unnerves me that one day
the flames of desire, may in vigour
engulf us both in together


She looked at me, with her beaver brown eyes

Drops of coffee, cocoa, kobicha, her charm magnetized

I had seen rivers away – under crystalline coal cerise

shielding satin white marble under sedated lashes, breath pulverized

Today, it glistened some three steps away

The warmth she spread as her palm held mine

Set spring to my skin, now blossoming daffodils – sweet divine!

Her smile, as Venus, in a dull morning sky

For me, oh, for me took no push to memorize

engraved in my veins for fourteen Christmas nights

To take her leave, she put her feet

In her tan brown sandals, my daily retreat

My joyous agony grows every dusk

But to divulge, this breath turns daunted

To ride away or walk to follow?

Wistfully, I turn, I exhale, I swallow

with the whiff of her wiry matt hair

double-stitched, woven in my lungs, in my air


I was in comfort, beside pillows
with no disagreement
no difference of opinions,
no riots for refuge
I covered myself with a veil
one colour for one – every different one
barely transparent for my skin to show
but the colour, the texture, of the shroud
was everyone’s darling

Little by little, my face faded and absorbed
the tint from every veil
I lost the temperament, unable to find
To look in the mirror, I found only the violet veil
I tore it open, to reveal my blurry face
now in tears
Set the colours on fire
Day by day, found the not-so-blurry face
now ready to wear myself
with no pretty purple veil to wear

“This poem dwells around someone who is striving to be themselves. Unable to find comfort in their own skin, they hide behind a veil and adopt the ‘fake it till you make it’ approach. The veil, in all colours, give them discomfort, because, of course it is arduous to not feel comfortable in your skin. The frustruation and discomfort bottles up until one day, they rip their veil open.”

Buried Heart

It yearns to perceive
buried behind bricks in all deep sea
drops of red plead
barely on her sleeve
Wants to bleed
desires to feel
to break, gather, fix and heal
yet, never comes out
the keeper presses close
behind shut doors
through hills, through snows, walks over shadows
will it live for what it be
or only pump vermilion through the skin?

I only ever wanted love and pain.

The Winter that Healed Me

42 beautiful winter images, winter image #winteraesthetic #winter  #christmasimage winter aesthetic, winter in the c… | Winter scenery, Winter  scenes, Winter images

It was the winter of last year

with “Heather” playing in my room

I recalled you as though

you were the love I couldn’t ever gather

My ink traced your beauty

your hair, your skin and your blue

in the July autumn’s words

It pained me up till my throat

for your heart didn’t grow flowers

with my spring warmth

Today, “Heather”, plays again

but it doesn’t cause my heart to ache

for the spring flowers are long since dead

and the butterflies, have long since flown away

The Winter is mine

It brings to me white stillness

numbness, all I want to feel

and all I am okay with feeling

“Heather” still plays


Some days, I’m not okay

Some loud music playing in my head

can’t seem to make it stop

find the pause, stop or break

I wake up from dreams

I can only call nightmares

of my past self

back in the block I started

The way I covered all lost

I am afraid of my past

who I used to be

Now I’m mended, stitched

hoping they do not one day tear open

Will they reveal who I really am?

Is my past my reality?

But I haven’t gone so much as far

to lose myself

a thread pulled out will bring me back

I’m still evolving, still changing, still mending

still fixing, stitching and breathing

to paint myself into the colors I dream

and one day, when I will

behind the band aid, there will be no wound

No past to hide

Because I will then be okay


The Broken Silk Thread

This time you stepped out I didn’t stop

didn’t try to pour out, cause if it’s not

my little silk thread still holding you back

its torn, laying in dust, somewhere black

I could write the words up in the cloud

or cry the love song, but I enshroud

My tunes, they may make you stay

but for no more than a lingering day

My hundred words you should have heard

not needing the voice of a humming bird

Now you leave, the door half open

Perhaps, our tale, faintly forgotten

The roses, on the bed, now pale and brown

leave wishy-washy stains, and on the ground

my little silk thread lay split in dust

and from beneath it says “mistrust”