From time to time I find myself
Searching time in places where
Time doesn't exist.
As if chasing the music, the waves create,
All the while standing on an arid land.
Lying on the terrace floor,
Small hands and even smaller feet,
I dreamed of a life on clouds.
The air that I breathed never felt so free.
Walking on bare feet in summer
Burnt marks on soles, and now
I would set myself on fire if I could feel
The warm embrace of wind as
I leaned into her for comfort.
And the flame tree that was then
Close enough to touch, I adored,
With spring she was crowned with
The flowers that spoke of gentle wildfire.
Now looks even more ethereal in autumn.
If summers were for comfort
Then winters brought a refuge.
The cold marble beneath assured me
Of solitude, with every chill
That fluttered the frill of my dress
And the beating inside my chest.
And yet a sense of belonging and peace
Like the song of a bird when she wanders
Her way back to her nest at every dusk.
My eyes tried to fill eternity in a spoon
When they captured the sky.
Young as I was, didnt knew then
That I was falling.
Because standing four floors high
Taking in the beauty of all that lies above,
I was soaring, I was flying.
A world I wish I knew more of
When I catched the inky canvas of art,
And specks of glimmers uniformly
Blending in the glow of
The soothing white light.
Standing like a tree I watched on
The creatures with wings
Carrying on with their life, unaware
What a sense of freedom they brought
To creatures like me.
And as I lay, every shape of cotton floating
Above, I thought was a letter I never knew.
And yet my laugh from the distant past
Still echoes within me
Like a tickle without a touch.
And the days of downpour,
When the drops didn't feel like a hammer
On my dirty skin,
But a gentle caress to my still naive soul
And an innocent joy to my still young heart.
Oh but what a blessing
I later realised, too late,
When I go back to
The place where terrace used to be;
And my place of freedom is chained by
The roofs that now stand in between
Me and the sky.
YOU ARE READING
Handwritten
Poetry"Sometimes I wonder If this is how it's supposed to be Can I make a choice ? Or is it all meant to be?"...
