The dead flowers,
crawling into my spine,
the spoilt, on my every breath.
My veins coloured with that
black cloud,
once blue,
It turned out it was only my hues.
My empathetic heart,
divine, as all called,
descended with me, the only thing I had left behind.
Crowned my own queen,
long rein the melancholy in me,
dazzling from within, the real power of me.
I left a trail,
if you follow,
a sea of vows,
strings of eternity,
sprinkled with my naivety,
if only it could ever last.
Find me,
beneath the crushed chaos,
but don't call me back,
I am a poet,
this is my purgatory.
- Madhura Joshi
Oct 20, 2025
Oct 20, 2025 at 6:23 AM UTC
The Scarlet Refusal
The box. The chains.
The absolution.
“It ends the pain,” they say.
But what is there for me to gain?
My shackles long slipped the rein.
It’s your box, your chain, that detains.
I abandoned that game.
“It sticks,” they say.
“It rebels,” they voice.
A bright red ‘A’.
But no heed I pay.
I light my illuminate blaze.
Not an arsonist—
Just someone who is unlevered.
May 22, 2025
May 22, 2025 at 8:46 AM UTC