The Falling Maples- Living Unconditionally- Poetry by S.S

(c) Shilpa Sandesh A tormented heart, Forgotten its beats, Wobbles and quavers, To the destiny's melodia; The inner self howls, To the fate's fouls, The nemesis' rapids, And an anguished soul; Mutilated and tattered, The conscience is shattered, Losing the breath of life, She now has a secret self; Clandestine are the woes, Eclipsed in the fate's wrinkled furrows, An amaranthine smile, Timeless and perpetual, Performing the destined role, But the lamenting is unleashed, As those eyes say it all!

(c) Shilpa Sandesh Resembling a marble figurine, Smooth and ivory white, Spritzed in the saline slosh, The booming waves, And the magic froth, Sousing her feet, Her toes pirouetting, Cavorting and frisking, To the melodies, Of the salty roar, Prancing to the tunes, Of the saline fragrant breeze, Are the lustrous brown tresses; Sauntering on the damp sand, Pondering about him, She envisioned one more pair of feet, Strolling along at the dawning beach, Solitary she walked, Conversing with the clapping surfs, And her beguiling silhouette, An afflatus, a poet's muse!

(c) Shilpa Sandesh As she flowed, A cabalistic river, Quixotic and mystical, She ebbed an undying love, He said, "You are but, An avalanche of doom, Death you would bring to me, So here, I leave you!" An aura of eternal love, Streams solitary, The mystic river....

(c) Shilpa Sandesh Joyous and flaring, Natheless merry I might be, My heart shudders, With an undying fright, As I hear the whispers, Of the demon inside of me; Snakes personifying, The course of time, Crawl, hissing around me, While the strings, Of forbidden memories, Strangle my neck with a haste, I am here but I am not myself, It's the demon inside of me; Lingering on my lips, The salty flavoured, Are my tears of fear, As I feel the growing pain, Of the stings of a thousand scorpions, The scorpions are but, Hands clenching my flesh, And the hands, Is the demon inside of me; As I force open my eyes, I see, I am no more my human self, Burnt into ashes I am, My soul watching from above, And gone is the demon inside of me.

(c) Shilpa Sandesh Wounded like a deer, She lay on the wet grass, Ripped apart, Torn into pieces, Bitten into fragments, By the wolves and fiends; Her soul is a feast, To countless nightmares, She runs for escape, From the bestial beasts, Sleeping in fear, that rules her mind; Her inner self is shaken, trembled, benumbed, Callous and dazed, Exploited and corrupted, By the materialistic world, Disinterested and selfless, Dispassionate to live; Tired she stands, Incapable to face, The filthy bunch, Of dishonest and crooked selves, She gazes upon, The wide open sky, And submits herself, To the One Spirit !

(c) Shilpa Sandesh A colloquial exchange Of sorrows and losses, Of melancholy and heartache, Broken you are, Your eyes are teary, The words of desolation, Where I let my gloom unveil, And you unsheathe yours, We are connected through pain; Uncontrollable laughter, Some unpretentious and random, Idiomatic dialogues, I hold my stomach, As I can't laugh anymore, Dissolved in chuckles you are, As we jest and quip, We are connected through joy; "He sees the endurance and agony, He lends the smiles and the grins", you say, "He be the maker of torments, He is the creator of radiance", I say, And so we are, Connected through faith; We be not actually together, But a connection, Would forever be there!

A raising tumult, A burning rage, The inner self so fierce , As a ranting devil, Trapped in a cage; A tranquil self, A reposed heart, A mind at ease, Like a huntsman aiming, patiently his dart; Dewy eyes, Piqued soul, Used to the core, Saturated with hurt, Wounded and sore; A wandering mind, Curious with visions, Breaking all bounds, Of fascination And passion; A Poet is but, Seasons personified, Imaginations glorified, Senses untethered, Keeper of Ever blooming blossoms, And never ending despair; A warrior, With an ink filled sword, Splattering the words, Of joy and glum; Like you, Like him, Like her, I am a Poet, And a day would be, My last, Forgotten I would be, But the ink in my words, Would be, Forever! (c) S.S