pranat03

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  • pranat03 52w

    her love
    is peaceful
    like soft taps
    of the snow on
    a windowpane
    whispering
    his name.

    ©pranat03

  • pranat03 59w

    he read poems to the
    shiniest of the stars,
    hoping one day she
    would peep out
    there to see it.

    ©pranat03

  • pranat03 60w

    he loves her
    just enough to
    keep her in his
    poems but
    not in
    life.

    ©pranat03

  • pranat03 60w

    enduring storms
    and ravages
    of time,
    poems are
    the lighthouses
    what poets gift
    to these ships.

    ©pranat03

  • pranat03 61w

    she looks at him
    like he holds
    some sort of
    magic, like
    sunflower
    to the
    sun.

    ©pranat03

  • pranat03 61w

    she
    smells
    of morning
    sun people
    chase for
    all their
    lives.

    ©pranat03

  • pranat03 61w

    they are the best kind
    of people who even
    though run away
    from light but
    carry their
    own moon
    wherever
    they go.

    ©pranat03

  • pranat03 61w

    she was a
    touch of
    madness
    and a whole
    lot of poetry.

    ©pranat03

  • pranat03 62w

    the wind caresses her
    hair with an utmost
    delicacy like an
    artist's brushstrokes,
    the sun snogs skin
    sedentarily like a
    vocalist who forgets
    to breathe, and, the
    sky wants to write
    about her all over
    its canvas, but
    all it can do is
    look at her
    smiling at
    the sea.
     
    ©pranat03

  • pranat03 62w

    her eyes are the
    colour of the hope
    spring desires
    in the winter.

    ©pranat03