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  • sayuriii 4w

    ����������

    White is the colour of new,
    of sunshine on morning dew,
    of the wedding dress she never threw,
    of butterflies that never flew.

    And now the white clouds slow dance,
    as the romance of white roses begins,
    white a colour so sacred,
    the hue of birth and death.

    White winter days look like happiness,
    like vanilla ice cream for children in summer,
    white is the shield of a fragile widow,
    white, the beginning of everything.

    And white is this day,
    that ends another chapter,
    with white carnations and water lilies.
    What lies ahead? Is it white or black?
    Maybe, today is all we can see,
    like the white string that ties you and me.
    ©sayuriii

    #color
    Is white a colour? Maybe not. It's just the start and end of everything. Like this year that is ending, on a white (good) note! :)
    Happy New Years,with an optimistic outlook ����

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  • sayuriii 5w

    Oh December!
    here we are again,
    in this beautiful dilemma,
    of colours for the tree lights,
    and wrappers for the gifts.
    But what lies,
    in shades and gifts,
    if joy is all that it gives?
    As another snowy night,
    builds castles on my backyard,
    what do I wish,
    on the delicate snowflakes?
    Can the soft wings,
    of the Christmas angels,
    hold the wishes of so many?
    Can a season so fragile,
    that melts away in fractions,
    fulfil the demands,
    of a world so big?
    Maybe it's all,
    a ritual after all,
    to ask for gifts,
    in this season of joy.
    But what is joy?,
    for the lightless cottages,
    and hearts with empty wishes?
    Mere lights and presents,
    or a content sleep,
    after a hearty meal?
    ©sayuriii

    #december
    Merry Christmas ☃️��
    Thank you so much for POD team! And thank you everyone for the love, wish I could be here more often, but it's a lil hard these days, but I'm so happy after seeing this :) Thank you again ❤️
    #pod_s

    (Will see you in the New Year, hopefully!��)

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  • sayuriii 8w

    The blood in my eyes,
    has been vanishing,
    like the yellows on my thali,
    half-cooked rice that tastes of sand,
    and a rusty glass of water.

    Just yesterday,
    I flew my last kite,
    like a last hope,
    of gathering all that was lost,
    in that dust storm,
    of keeping promises,
    that were long buried and forgotten.

    Oh mother! Don't smile at me,
    your smile makes me ache,
    and makes my mouth taste like blood,
    weep out your tears,
    on my bare palms,
    what if they grow into,
    the water lilies of our old garden?

    When will rain come,
    brimming with silver joy,
    till we get drenched till death,
    in this city of drought?
    ©sayuriii

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  • sayuriii 11w

    #wanderer
    #pod_s
    12/11/21

    @miraquill umm what!? ��
    Man thank you so much, such a surprise, thank you everyone ��❤️
    @writersnetwork thank you ��✨

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    A piece of a wayfarer's heart

    What do you see,
    you ask me,
    when I look at the settling horizon?
    And what do I tell you,
    out of all beautiful sceneries,
    which one do I describe,
    as the most mesmerizing?
    There are colours in the west,
    yet darkness in the east.
    And when I head northward,
    I see sumptuous summers,
    but there in the south,
    are blooming winter flowers.
    So I stand in the middle,
    and create a painting,
    out of western skies,
    eastern stars,
    northern meadows,
    and southern snowy hours,
    and give it to you,
    as you head home on that road,
    that leads to the oasis,
    of hopeful beginnings,
    and I watch you disappear,
    behind the canopies,
    as my feet take off,
    bare, in the dust again.
    ©sayuriii

  • sayuriii 11w

    / Take a deep breath
    Until both sides of your heart get numb
    Until it hurts a little
    Let out your breath even more
    Until you feel
    like there’s nothing left inside
    It’s alright if you run out of breath
    No one will blame you
    It’s okay to make mistakes sometimes
    Because anyone can do so
    Although comforting by saying it’s alright
    Are just words.../
    ~ (Breathe, Kim Jonghyun)

    Don't let anyone's grief go #unnoticed

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    Love is in the wisp
    of life saving breath,
    that escapes from my inhaler,
    in the middle of the night.
    Love is in the warmth,
    of the duvet embracing,
    every cell in my being stricken
    by cold sickness.
    Love is in knowing,
    that minutes before death,
    in an unnoticed life
    I was the only one holding onto me,
    like the last leaf,
    on a wild ivy.
    Love is in the careful
    hands of God,
    picking me up and
    taking me away.
    Love is in the drops,
    of rain drenching,
    the yellow roses that dance,
    as the wind passes upon
    my lonesome grave.
    (They say yellow is the colour of joy.)
    ©sayuriii

  • sayuriii 11w

    Minutes before being hanged, no matter how big of a crime, death is tragic...
    #start
    Smh I write too long these days '_'

    RIP

    I stand against the wind today,
    And oh! Can this night be any calmer?,
    Brimming with fear and eerie nostalgia,
    like a sad romance of darkness and light,
    one overpowering, the other every second.
    And dreams slip and fall off my sleeves,
    how long can they hold on, when life itself doesn't?
    The only vision I have is of chaotic peace,
    why does death seem so surreal?
    Oh no longing, no desire to go back,
    now that everything stops,
    except for my footsteps,
    like the ticking of a horrid clock.
    Bliss and delight are dead children,
    no spectators to the moon's playtime,
    only demons dance amidst blades of grass,
    like a piece of classic dark poetry.
    My wife's trinkets jingle in my pocket,
    can I ever return them to her bare hands?
    And if not, they shall stay,
    shining upon the world the silvery moonlight.
    Fireflies are roaming around,
    oh can beauty camouflage with dread?
    Silence a best friend to the screeching soul,
    wanting to break away somewhere.
    Vague are memories,
    on my bleeding mind,
    vague are tears and grief,
    since no tears save life on knife edges,
    no grief stronger than regret.
    Walking through the corridors,
    of an endless night,
    mirages of lakesides and dinner tables,
    oh what part of my hypnotized mind,
    still remembers good days for so long?
    My children are gazing out,
    to a non existent tomorrow,
    when I come back and embrace them tight,
    oh if only god didn't make little children,
    suffer the atrocities of the old.
    Stars dazzle, as I near the loop,
    threatening to suffocate,
    vowing to be the justice for all.

    (Relax, and let death,
    guide you slowly through,
    your childhood till the last time,
    you saw yourself in the mirror,
    from school, to the last commute,
    from parties, to the last T.V show.
    The city of death, an ugly fair view,
    oh in what solitude you lay,
    as pure sleep, slides down your throat.)
    ©sayuriii

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  • sayuriii 11w

    #free ❣︎


    LAST LETTER
    ~~~~~~~~~
    (Poet)
    If today my hands, were f r e e and
    weren't bound by syringes,
    pumping blood into my parched heart,
    oh! my love, I would've held you so tight,
    and so close to me,
    lest we fell apart.
    Oh my love,
    do you still press butterflies,
    and your dearest daisies,
    onto the bare chests of my favourite books?
    Where else do you store affection,
    in our dainty little house,
    now that the bed is empty,
    and the cupboards silent?
    Oh my love!
    Only if we,
    were less apart,
    my feet wouldn't wait,
    to carry yours,
    and the sky wouldn't dress,
    like an ill patient.
    But oh my love,
    how pathetic is life,
    like weeds we thrived,
    and yet so fragile,
    like frail dandelions,
    we flew apart?
    Lend me the pain,
    of your lonesome heart,
    oh my love,
    I'll ease your soul,
    till I rest in deathbed,
    but don't you suffer,
    in your innocent mind,
    when my last letter,
    doesn't arrive.

    (Poetess)
    And what aches more today,
    is it my silly heart,
    that f l o a t s away like a paper bird?
    I believe no fallacy,
    about love and death,
    now that my dearest,
    is miles apart.
    But oh I know,
    distance is patience,
    dressed like pain.
    And what is time,
    if I know my love,
    is sacred like the rivers,
    that run through my mother's heart?
    I run out of pages,
    and then I peel off my dress,
    and my shedding skin,
    to write for my love,
    and ask if the moon,
    looks different miles apart?
    Oh! Why does he tell me to not worry,
    I don't worry, I don't cry,
    I keep smiling when I see,
    the sunrise and the moonrise,
    and I don't tame butterflies,
    now that I know,
    life is transitory.
    But why do I feel,
    as this time goes by,
    I keep falling deeper,
    in love with grief?
    Yesternight,
    he wrote me the longest letter,
    I wonder if he still has,
    enough ink to write...
    ©sayuriii

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  • sayuriii 12w

    #hyperbole for pain ☔︎
    @/writersnetwork ��❤️

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    My scars are carcasses of rebellious raindrops,
    pain, the cry of an emerging phoenix.
    My tears are the stories of a golden hour sun,
    past, a poem written in hyperbole.
    ©sayuriii

  • sayuriii 12w

    Long time '_'
    __________

    And what if fall didn't arrive?,
    with the dust getting browner,
    on your lone pavement?
    What if the odes didn't come to life,
    what if poets didn't have a season to love?
    The trees would sit green,
    and fresh all year,
    but oh how they'll miss,
    the silence so loud,
    of the browning maples,
    and warm cafes playing vinyls all evening.
    The coats would sit,
    graved deep inside cupboards,
    and no chapped skin,
    bothering beautiful girls.
    But oh how she'll miss,
    her scarf being carried away,
    by the zephyr that runs,
    out of glowing bakeries.
    The writer would sit,
    fazed by the change,
    that doesn't arrive,
    to flutter through the pages,
    of his unwritten novel.
    And oh! If fall didn't arrive,
    how'll one know,
    when to stop,
    and let go,
    nostalgic worries,
    and dance bare for once?
    ©sayuriii

    #writersnetwork #miraquill :")

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  • sayuriii 16w

    Inspired by Grave of the fireflies ��
    •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

    Hearts of malice?
    ••••••••••••••••••••••

    (1.The boy)

    Now as I write about war,
    I can remember his shadowed eyes,
    his grey sweatshirt and hanging hood,
    the sounds of battle that resonate,
    as he strides with heavy steps,
    through smoged streets,
    smoking a cigarette,
    a silhouette so eerie,
    an aura of tragic history,
    and donated heritage.
    "A product of war",
    a foetus grown in horse backs,
    and secret tunnels,
    a soul packed inside a bag of shotguns,
    and a cereal bowl full of bullets.
    Ruins of a house,
    brown grasslands,
    and yet somehow unnoticed,
    is this dreary tragedy.
    What consolation dries the tears of war?
    What realm of time,
    soothes their fossiled scars?

    (2. The bag)

    Grey walls,
    contrast the sand coloured rucksack,
    a child of war dust,
    knife scars lining its edges.
    On hunched backs it has endured,
    neverending marathons,
    of hunger chases,
    and sword threats.
    On beautiful evenings it was forced,
    inside gloomy cabinets,
    inside death coloured tanks,
    listening to the music of war.
    Do you call it fate,
    or mere mentality,
    that inanimate things,
    become refugees too?
    Oh! No heartache,
    no sympathy,
    a journey from a slave factory,
    on a relief truck,
    to someone's young, fragile hands,
    just a mere bag of possessions,
    ever loyal to the boy's back,
    tearing like glass,
    through pages of war memoirs.

    //And these are the children of war,
    born with shields for hearts,
    and swords for hands,
    hearts of malice that only breathe peace
    souls like fireflies on dark nights.//
    ©sayuriii

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    "And presently, like a circling typhoon,
    the sounds of battle began to return."
    ~ Vile Bodies, Evelyn Waugh