In a constellation of dying stars
So there was this man,
He had a heart made of paper
And a mind made of fire.
And all the words he tried to speak
Would come out in a trail of blaze and smoke.
He lived his life like a dying star,
Recklessly and fearfully at the same time.
Burning himself up to shine
With words he kept inside.
With some grace and some madness,
He danced all his life in the darkness,
Far from the reach of any living soul,
Hoping someone would catch his light
On his way back home.
He would shout into the silence
His love for little things
Like half dead kings
In empty battlefields,
Whispering about chivalry
Long after the war is over.
He’d die a little each night
But he’d wake up every day
Like fools waiting in the rain
For something worth dying or
Something worth living for
This is not a holiday house.
Where you can come with your set of bags and accommodations
Stay as long as you want
And leave when you’re bored
There are no one to clean up the mess you make here
No one to fix the broken floors
No one to hold the door when the wind blows too strong
Except for me and some phantom residents of this place
But this is a home
It’s broken , dusty and needs mending in many areas
It’s been through rain , storm and the wearings of age
But I live here
And this is where I’ve grown
If you decide to stay
Stay with me
Help me fix this place
I can promise you peace
Not a perfect peace like the ones we see in pictures
But the kind that comes with faith in a place like this.
She always had bright eyes,
Like diamonds in an inferno.
No one really knew
If it was some secrets to smile about
Or just the next tear ready to fall.
She kept quiet ,
She had nothing much to say and nothing much to talk about .
Her shoes were always clean
She had nothing much to dance for and nowhere to go .
Till he came ,
Then her eyes shone.
She scraped words from
Leaves falling on the field,
The sound of rain on concrete .
She’d string the words together
Into a necklace for him.
She’d run and dance untill her legs can’t anymore .
And her shoes were filled with dirt.
Till he left .
Her eyes shone again.
The words fell from her eyes
Like pearls on red carpets.
Her shoes were clean again,
Her eyes never stopped shining
And no one really knew
When it’ll stop again.
I am not a tortured martyr,
A lost ship trying to make port,
A lonely preacher looking for a way back home
Or a beacon of light
Trying to shine through the cracks of my hand.
I don’t write for comfort ,
I don’t write to soak up all the blood,
I don’t write to be seen,
I don’t write to escape fate in an elegant way
And there’s not much grace in the way I write.
There’s a constant war going on inside
And the poems are just the flowers
That I managed to scrap from the ruins of the disaster.
1 thought on “Poems are Flowers Rescued from the Ruins of Disaster”
Such an inspiration. Keep writting. Your mind is beautiful.
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