Colours are hidden in a lover's eyes.
Painting that grows deep with time.
Colours of love make destiny blind.
It fades, leaving heart's ruins behind.
Sometimes it is as pink as a smile.
Sometimes it's the endless night.
But has more shades than the sky.
No paper can hold its great might.
It's a bliss when it's red as a wine.
Few keep it close till their last time.
Giving birth to poems of sweet lies.
And ages sweeter with flowing time.
Many drown in this very wine.
When this painting fades with time.
Apr 6
Apr 6, 2026 at 11:49 AM UTC
I still hold the roses she gave.
Withered, but not for the grave.
I whisper the poems she wrote.
They are like wine to my throat.
But I don't hope for the same.
I don't wish for her to feel this flame.
I know she will forget my pain.
As I was never her first rain.
Apr 6
Apr 6, 2026 at 11:48 AM UTC
Flowers breathe with a smile so calm.
I love them a lot so I give no harm.
Never pluck them to as gift of warmth.
Flowers do not bloom just to wither.
They sing tunes with turning weather.
And dance with winds and heather.
Flowers are the love's living feather.
When I look up at the sky so wide.
I do not admire him for being wise.
I also listen to the secrets he hides.
The sky never rains but in pain cries.
Clouds get heavy with prayers of lies.
Then tears fall from the heavenly skies.
He lets his tears fall to see us smile.
Apr 6
Apr 6, 2026 at 11:46 AM UTC
God is a poet who loves tragedy.
He wrote our tale with ink of misery.
Our poem begins with smile and pain.
Ends with wishes whispered in vain.
God is a puppeteer holding the strings.
When he hums, in choir we all sing.
But what are we in His world's stage.
Nothing but His puppets made of clay.
God is the father of all who breathe.
Keeps sword of justice in his sheath.
Why does he never save the dying?
Why does he never burn the lying?
Maybe we're too blind in his love?
Will we forever beg the sky above?
Will he ever face our questions' rain?
Or pull the strings and make us pray?
Apr 6
Apr 6, 2026 at 11:44 AM UTC
Winds whisper in the meadow.
But I hear silence of my shadow.
Winds sing the tales unknown.
But I sit to write one of my own.
This world is too a little meadow.
People come like winds unknow.
What's unheard is our own sorrow.
Left alone, with tears to swallow.
Hear the voices that in silence echo.
Sit with yourself, and never be alone.
In this meadow let's make a home.
To store the memories of our own.
Apr 5
Apr 5, 2026 at 3:05 AM UTC