Words-Worth Your Time

When you visit the fair— Walk a bit further— Towards the outskirts. There you will see— A tent— Blue and red— Its conical ceiling reaching high Towards the stars. Push away the curtain and enter— Shadows— Only shadows— Crooked yellowing teeth, Long winding fingers,  And large eyes— They have—no mouths. They witness— never speak. Their hands rise— fingers too tangled to harm, so they direct, instead— forward. Where they wish you to go— Follow their directions, step inside, until the door is out of view. They will blind you— still, don't be afraid— venture further. Just a few steps— not too many— the shadows, when obeyed, will not hurt you— and yet in their eyes— an incredulous gleam. Now, on your right stands a lamp. A sharp scratch— and with a sulphuric stench it lights— And they disappear— afraid. Your sight—finally returned. The light reflects off the walls, Dousing the room in white. Once it settles, take a look around— the monsters are gone— nowhere to be found. Yet what looks ...

An Oak once stood— Tall and proud— By the edge of the woods, Its leaves — Reaching up for the stars. Often did it look at its reflection— Charred bark and Branches sweeping wide. It bows it frame, Gazing wistfully— At the pine that stood  By the foot of the hill— How graceful it looked! How warm! "No wonder people brought them  Into their home!"  It would say— How the Oak longed— To be part of the fun and festivities! So it chopped off its branches Felling them —as it bled from the wounds It caused. But, did it stop? No. It reasoned instead— Kept repeating: "It will be worth it"— Over and over again. It ignored itself— It's pain— Ignored its worth— How loved it was— A shelter for all— But one day— One day There was nothing left— All was gone— Nothing remained— What once was— Lay dead. All of it's—once Sweeping—branches  Lay on the earth. The nesting birds and  The foraging squirrels— Rushed away from it. Only now did it understand— Its errors— But now— Now t...

When I have my own house, My voice will permeate the walls, I will find a home within it. My eyes will paint— with colours of light— On the ceiling, My hopes and dreams. My cup on the counter, My clothes on the chair, My hair—tied up in a bun as I cook— My dishes in the sink, My favourite songs on the playlist. Dancing around the kitchen with a slice of cake, And my pillows thrown on the bed— I am unbarred. Crying without judgement, Laughing without thought, Wearing what I wish— I am unbarred. Words spill on my table— Pages upon pages— Of every thought, every wish— And dream— That ever passed my eye. A wooden swing and green curtains, Blue-stained windows and red cushions— Golden light—banishing the shadows— All seen— in my home. On the wood and ply, Where the warmth and cold— Are— As they have always been— These are my hopes, and dreams— A small home— A big life— None to pick me apart, None to cast a shadow— On this little life of mine— None to erase me. 

A boat rocks on the sea— A dance she knows, Oh so well, The passengers aboard, Mirror her dance, Celebrating their journey Over the seas. And she? She revels— Finds purpose amongst them. They see water, But she sees home, The sea— Her friend— A relation No human could comprehend— One beyond time— And space. She holds many treasures— One only need ask— The right questions— Of what might pass— Of what they might earn. She has seen many— Far too many— Rise and fall— Their capability clouded, And mind blinded. As volatile— As them— The waves crash— Against her hull— Pit in her heart— She closes her eyes— Decision made. Her hull breaks— Water cascades in— She does not fight— She welcomes— Slipping softly Down— Down, Finally— Home.

 Swallow me whole— Turn my body to soil, and let the plants grow— May my soul be set free— Of this prison of thorns— Of these hearts— That cage— My spirit— I hope— I become a home— To those who wish for one— While I— Leave it all behind.

There was once — a manor, By the old Sharma's farm. Grandeur — permeated into every brick, Large halls — a courtyard—  Rooms— filled to the brim with odd trinkets. But now— Its pillars— Once proud — Buckle under its weight — Its rooms— Once full of life—of joy— Now stare emptily back, With cracks along their walls— The same ones that housed— Once upon a time— Paintings of future artists— Trees and fruitful days. The stairs are missing pieces now— The handrail has been removed— The furniture— Previously littered with toys and newspapers— Lies strewn across the halls. Crossing the broken gate— I enter— Spending some time— In my cold home— I couldn't help but notice — I was all alone.