. . .

She was intensely absorbed  in reading an odd book one late December night. Then she heard three faint knocks on her door. "Who's there?" she muttered, her voice failing her. Only three faint knocks  again answered her. She stood up and walked to the door with a foreboding of something evil. In a hell-for-leather manner, she opened the door. A very cold wind brushed against her face. It was darkness. Nothing more.

Life's cut-and-dry alchemized her into a dull machine. She's cold, hard, perfunctory and superficial. She was just making a living yet now, there isn't any hint of life in her.

. . .

Tired with endless bafflegab around her, what could be much better than wearing the noose around her neck? But she won't do that as it is too prosaic. She will instead snake her way into oblivion and give reverence in her own eccentric ways to Providence who had brought her up. For she is a grateful creature, this girl- untamed but grateful.

. . .

Dreams are fragile things-
songs which no one ever sings,
made of broken wings.

#bedtimepoetry
#haiku

. . .

There were two. The dark one- carnal, bold and more dominant; and the bright one- upright, spiritual and noble. Each fought through their claws and teeth. Each struggled for supremacy. But one has to devour or be devoured. The dark one, being the older and more vicious, has ingested the other entirely. He may have won the fight but he lost the war. For inside him, the seed of righteousness has grown and contaminated his foul blood. Now they are one. So even in his most wicked deed, he will never forget how once he had been kind, and remembering, will give birth to remorse. Thus, there isn't only black nor white. They are one.

. . .

The abrasions on her knees and arms are nothing. It is the lost of all will to get up that has mangled her heart the most. She felt a lump in her throat. She struggled so hard to repress the tears that have started to well up in the corners of her eyes. In a shaky voice she told them, "I'm fine."

. . .

She clenched her teeth and stared straight ahead. She knew that eventually, she will rot into oblivion. She had beaten her fist very hard against her left chest. Then she whispered to herself, "Thou shall not crumble, dear heart. Thou shall not crumble."

How will one make himself a new man if not through suffering? How can one be worthy of the supreme and ultimate Reality if not by annihilating all vanity in him? And how does one do it? Where will one begin? Alas, I'm in a logorrheic state again.

. . .

She could have thrown herself at the object of her terrene passion's feet if it was not because of a Miracle. The Miracle has proved that she was not doomed to sink altogether in her baseness and be crushed by the aftermath of an unrequited love. What she found is an unrivaled resplendence- the Miracle that has saved her. Cruel world, do not rob her of her Miracle.

. . .

That voice, I know it - sonorous and has an element of pathos in it. It is the voice of Vengeance. From stifled moans, it unfolded into  a ghastly wail. And I knew- I had always known. Vengeance is a knife that cuts both ways. But why does such passion make us forget that axiom?