Once,when I was young Tiptoed the sheet of adoration Cherishing spring in my quill I doused it in boreal gauze sluicing down the horizon I lurked some ethereal brew from irradiation, to sprinkle it on verses of gloomy ambiance To write a poem of innocence from the heartsease of wind's cares
Once when I was young, I grew sunflowers on my neck and dragged sunset above my collar bones, to levitate peace in my orchard where chaos laid barefoot on white pebbles and black stones.
I saw more light raising in bottle of wine and howls etched upon grass blades, I've succumbed thousands of screams in my head but silence walked out of my throat each time truth negotiated.
When I was young, I labelled heartbreaks as poetries and scars as belligerent hope, but as creases endowed my skin I felt life is more about survival and existence, like blooming dahlias, which cry and shout yet smile till in fences it is choked. ~Purva
Have you ever seen an artist at work? in the throes of passion, in the state of flow; have you watched him twiddle a pencil between his lip and his nose? Have you never tried to count the number of lines that imprison a growing ball of sun, which radiates and shines almost like a third eye, between the peaks of his brows clenched high — a cloudless sunrise
Witnessing an artist at play is like espying the twilight sky, running amok in its grandmother's backyard, plucking overripe bulbs of juicy plums and plump peaches and throwing them on a dark canvas, which then splashes open with a thick, squishy squelch of french lavenders and burnt oranges. — a messy beauty
Observing him at work is as if discovering a bud of lotus, wholly present, drowning in the moment, detached, yet afloat, with all its focus concentrated in unfolding itself, layer after layer; emerging in time, inspite and because of all the muck it rises between. — a silent hustler
And then at times, an artist is a dark, impenetrable forest in a threatening rainstorm; temporarily inaccessible to all the distractions lurking by his fringes; with a wild tiger in his heart, captive and dangerously quiet, he is patiently waiting for the art to come alive; so the animal within can pounce, and sink its teeth; deep; claiming his prey with a signature peck of his name. — a violent craft.
You're an auburn tenant to love and a home of hope within, lavenders weave orchard through your poetries where nightingales keep warbling, your cheeks bloom into verses of forever and your eyes cascade cassettes of 80's, tacenda unfolds as a belief when your lips leak rainbows and art trans- -pire through melodic symphonies, sunflowers grow on the walls of your chest when seraphic September roams for a shelter in the city of your poesies.
Wishing you many many happy returns of the day Riya ❤❤ may your life be filled with all the joy and ecstacy, I still remember you were the first person with whom this heartsease interacted and found a hope within marmoris. You're a brilliant writer and more over a very beautiful soul, I've always been stunned by the way you write for when I was of your age I used to be screwed up by basic grammar XD I love you my sweet Rosgulla @turquoise_stars