As I walk down this road called life. I pass by many signs and billboards. Some adorned with flashy colours and the others drab and grey. A few of them a cry for help while the rest boasted tall claims. There was a time where I'd be beguiled by them. Taken off my path to find nothing but regret and misery. Long past was that time and I had learned.
I had given up on finding a companion or paying any heed to these so called advertisements. I had reached contentment and a hopelessness had established a strong foothold. It is at this time where, out of the blue, I happened across something unadorned and unblemished.
I went to that place and a lonely house stood on the hill. A house encircled in a strong wall with a gate of solid steel. I couldn't explain what I was doing there or why I lingered on. There was something there that beckoned me. Whispered my name. For many days I stood at the gates, with no way to get in.
I had seen but a single person, roaming around the balcony. Head held low with dark hair shadowing her face. A fellow traveller but for one who's journey stood still. Almost as if she had refused to play the game by it's rules and was hell-bent on haunting this estate.
I, mesmerized, stood still and watched. The air was thick with sadness and regret. Almost palpable was her suffering. I had seen many who were in anguish, none of which had me transfixed. She saw me one day, when the clouds blanketed the sky, furnished with a red tinge. What a porpentous day. When our gaze crossed each other's, that millisecond where I held her gaze. Spoke to me in volumes, almost a cry for help. Yet a determined need to stay away.
As if a scared, wounded animal, she went back inside. Too terrified to have any human interaction. I stood there, vigil. A force planted my feet firmly on the ground, unable to move. My hands clutching the bars of the gate. Days past by me in the blink of an eye. The wind picked up, caressing my cheeks, whistling past my ears.
One day, the sound of crushing autumn leaves grabbed a hold of my attention. Soft, slow footsteps approached the gate. The girl with the hair that would put the darkest night to shame, slowly approached. In such a fashion, that any sudden movement would send her reeling back inside.
She rests her slender hands, her fingers curling around the bars. Her forehead against the cold steel, eyes downcast. An expression of absolute nothingness adorned. She wore her lips in a slight pout, visibly stiffening her upper lip.
Her eyes slowly lifted, looking in my general direction. She whispered, "why do you stand vigil?" The sound of her voice sent chills down my spine. How can a voice be so haunting yet beautiful? As if emanating from a hollow vessel. I stutter and splutter. "I know not for what brings me here. Neither do I know my purpose. I am a traveller, solace my only company"
A faint hint of a smile lit her face and she nodded. As if speaking to myself, without explanation, she understood. We stood there for an age or was it a minute? Without talking we talked. As if speech was not a requirement to understand each other's souls. She opens the gate and takes my hand in hers.
A soft, velvetty texture and yet so cold. I followed where that hand took me. Into that lonely house sat up on the hill. Those walls and that solid steel gate left behind in the distance. The house had a new settler, haunted by two hollow souls. The house in the middle of nowhere, that sat up on top of the hill...
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The earth was overwhelmed,
And the silt, relished her perpetual journey.
The rivulet wanted more of her,
While the breeze was cooler than ever.
The mountains echoed her octaves,
And the verdure followed her footsteps.
The yeoman felt elated at her arrival,
And the delightful poet, sat sonneting.
The lovers sat in an embrace, by the fireplace,
While the pluviophile inhaled the dewy petrichor.
But the clouds were in great pain, dripping blood,
The cruel enchantress tore it apart to adorn the orb.
The merry crowd, didn't see the shrouds bleeding,
For they, were all engrossed in worshiping the rain.
© Written by Bhavya Betty aka BV
📌 Instagram: @thelunaticmuser
To my best friend
The story of us is the one I couldn't forget
Its about how we started in a date
In a Cafe' that we've first meet
The cappuccino that we love to sip
Our giggles in non sense talks and debates
The tears and laughter that we shared
The secrets and lies we kept
About our crushes and first love
You give me a family that I missed
A sister and a friend
My armour and a shield
When I'm in doubt
You give me hope
And when I'm lost
You give me home
You're always here to comfort me
You're a treasure to keep
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i am very raw, just like an unripen mango, when it comes to writing poetry. i am like a half-grown tree that takes refuge in the shadows of tall great trees like robert frost, john keats, emily dickinson, sylvia plath, byron, shakespear, whitman, rilke, bukowski and many more. i am growing slowly and steadily in their companionship. but not to forget, i have to find my own voice while reading them. most of the time when i read keats and i rhyme like him, i read shakespear and in my poetry you replace with thee, i read byron and i stuff mythology in my poetry, i read bukowski and my poems stink of stubbornness and boldness. and that is why i keep telling people who tell me that i write good poetry that it's not my own voice. i am yet to find it.
nowadays, i came to a realisation that i am writing rarely and whatever that I am writing, I am writing less poetry and more ramblings. ramblings that i want to let out just because i think people will like them not because I want to write them. at times I don't even feel like i am writing poetry but still i keep adding these pieces into a stock of meaninglessness. poetry loses its meaning and value when it is written for others and not for the self. even after knowing this i let these ramblings out to clear the space, hoping that more beautiful poems will occupy that space, poems which will be more meaningful to me rather than others.
i am not the kind of a poet who is obsessed with poetry. no, i won't lie that I can't live without poetry. i am selfish bastard who turn to poetry and who likes to feed on poetry only when i am in a dire need of it. be it writing poetry or reading poetry, i do it when i feel like doing it. often, i get this feeling that i am betraying the art but i don't really care. when i force myself into writing, i create more ramblings and less poetry. i detest the poetry that i write for the sake of writing but when i write for myself, a heavenly feeling of satisfaction takes place in my heart which help me go through a few weeks without writing anything. and that's why i jumped on a conclusion that has been written by a great poet like robert frost years ago. that 'to be poet is a condition, not a profession".
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