heartsease

When love comes, there is no divergence. Resumed ❤️

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  • heartsease 2w

    #monostich

    Just checking something

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    Rejoice

    Find happiness, there's always going to be something sour.
    ©heartsease

  • heartsease 2w

    When the sun falls in
    another tangerine glass and
    moon bestow ivory to the sky,
    I wonder how many existences
    and mortal souls has poetry
    kept alive and bonafide.

    Do words flow like winds
    and blow life to moribund?
    Or do they keep giving
    birth to lines that bloom
    into a poetry,
    whose ending is yet to grow
    but carry spirits that were
    left to be rotten.

    Are words enough to
    shelter fading hearts into
    poems rather than burying
    them in graveyards?
    Or are they a mere voice
    of broken hut mourning
    for the lost wave of hope
    that curled across the resting
    sea last time, when grief
    was spilled from the pen of
    a bard.

    When the sun settles back
    to the margin of blue sky and
    moon slips down to slumber,
    I still wonder how many lives
    has poetry kept alive,
    and how many emotions has
    poetry abandoned to be rusted
    and drowned in
    loveliest demise.
    ~Purva

    #questions #unnoticed

    @miraquill do you know what's the best part? You stayed by my side in this whole journey of mine here, whether it were happiest days or darkest times and I appreciate that. Thank you ♡

    @writersnetwork Thank you so much ♡

    10th Nov 21
    7:15 pm
    #hs_pod

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    I kept blowing life to poetries,
    but still the roses withered and
    and my love went unnoticed.
    ©heartsease

  • heartsease 3w

    #hyperbole

    @writersnetwork you've already melted my heart into starry particles ❤️

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    I was thinking of writing you
    on peripheral walls of my heart for long,
    but I realised your paintings were
    already embellished there like lyrics of a song.
    ©heartsease

  • heartsease 3w

    Espoir, Rain-bows /to Hope/

    As the last winter wave
    recede back to the oak tree I look
    at flaxen bright sun resembling
    to ripened mango with vengeance,
    for summer no more yields roses
    and sunflowers evenly, nor does
    men and women take uniform steps
    on Gogh's canvas of briskly hued
    divergence.

    I pull up my gaze and stare at
    the chaos which spreads like
    Monsoon rain, burdening already
    weighted shoulders around this
    vicinity. Ma says flowers were
    women at ancient times, existing
    as daughters of kasturi which
    took birth from the womb of deer,
    she tells tales that they are delicate
    and outburst in cacophony.

    The skin etched on my flesh
    looks dark like those grey clouds
    blooming at June evening and
    it pricks me, tongues, like needles
    going in and out. There lights a
    rainbow on the candle of hope
    every time a flower blooms in
    spring, it reminds me of colleen
    victories and teaches me to be
    resilient when the last winter
    wave recede back to the oak tree.
    ~Purva

    Not exactly a #myth

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  • heartsease 5w

    There's a salvation when,
    your feet don't long to melt in
    the footsteps of chaos and
    you share this breathing space
    word by word on a blank leaf.
    A home you made,
    a temple it looked;
    where whole universe is draped
    in an explicit cloak of a rhyming
    poetry.

    There were times when,
    the world was painted in green
    except for the blue skies and
    sapphire oceans, where we made
    love in epilogues of rainbow and
    loosened-letters called stars of
    dusk.
    Moon did brightened,
    twilight borrowed some hues;
    when the geometry of our souls
    was drawn amidst the syllables
    of a beautiful poetry.

    There's a closet opening in
    my arms, of flowers that smell
    of hope and books that read
    self-worth when sunshine wraps
    around me and clouds leak pride.
    A wound I kissed,
    It bloomed into a rose;
    where scars are sown and raised
    as strength into the empty spaces
    of a free-versed poetry.

    There's peace in silence when,
    the words turn down to ashes
    but are still sung upon in poems
    admired by each passerby.
    A dream you weaved,
    a beauty that flourished;
    where the midnight rustle of leaves
    and the blow of air is treasured
    in the collection of poetry, and
    in a touch of moment with ink
    I understood,
    Everyone becomes a poet.
    ~Purva

    This is perhaps the #end of me :)

    @writersnetwork it is never late to mend right? Thank you ❤️

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  • heartsease 5w

    I was fading into darkness
    until poetry brought me a sun,
    little did I knew metaphors
    don't make your soul glow
    until you yourself choose to burn.

    #metaphor

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    Not-a-mayhem

    The breeze of October feels
    little cold these days and I'm
    wandering in the fields of words,
    for winters are already reserved
    by wordsmiths.
    But my mind seems to be warm,
    it's a battlefield where millions
    of thoughts are fighting against
    each other to settle their king-
    dom over my tongues tip.

    My frozen heart is fathomed
    under the bright summer sun
    but my allegories succumb in
    front of those winter chills
    which make me rest upon the
    boulevards of imaginations.
    Leaves have turned viridescent
    till now, orange already bade
    adieu brushing my skin with the
    hope of another reincarnation.

    The war is left half played
    because some days it rains down
    or summer comes too soon and
    moreover I need frost to stabilise
    my turbidity.
    But the revolution is more about
    raising lilies and jasmines on the
    the porcelain of my battlefield,
    making them my muse for eternity.

    And the breeze of October feels
    little warm on days when I walk
    on road which take me under the
    shelter of sunkissed poetries.
    ~Purva

  • heartsease 5w

    You looked at the vigilance of my feathers
    and exclaimed it'd take ephemeral flights.
    But darling you failed to see,
    this bird has splattered poetic wings
    to travel beyond heights.
    ©heartsease

  • heartsease 5w

    Smoking and drinking is injurious for health.

    #haynaku

    I've even lost the hope for getting ec on my posts (+_+)

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    While
    getting drunk
    over red tequilas,

    I
    fall in
    love without sigh.

    While
    smoking cigars
    of half-burnt flowers,

    Nectar
    oozing from
    poetries get-me high.
    ©heartsease

  • heartsease 5w

    I've watered poetries everyday
    before they bloomed into conflicts,
    and here's my un-nurtured heart
    breaking into healed fragments
    of twenty-six.
    ©heartsease

  • heartsease 5w

    शश्यापि पतति तस्य सौंदर्यस्य पुरत:
    यदा चक्षुषे साकम् तम् अहम् लिखामि।
    नैकम् शरद: परिमृज्
    द्विगुणा नि:श्वसनम् अस्माकम् कथाम् विना।

    Translation:
    Even the moon falls in front of his beauty,
    when I write him with my eyes.
    Not a single autumn pass over
    without breathing out our stories twice.

    My first attempt to write a poem in Sanskrit ❤️

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