The queen reigns in her crimson glory,
A life she lives, an endless allegory.
She shows her cards, though her heart is pained,
The queen of hearts, the name now stained.

The joker’s act, turns The Queen’s frown,
He sees her hand, let the crown slip down.
He played his cards, to make her smile,
But, for she is lost stuck in exile.

Tale as old as time,
When women love, it is considered a crime.
This is not an ordinary tale,
Where the queen hides beneath her veil.

She rises from her sorrow’s shade
To love, to live not to fade.
Pleased by the Joker’s play,
She invites him in, as dinner is laid.

In her mind,an invisible string,
Bound The King and The Queen, in an infinite ring.
Yet, fate had woven as different scene-
It was The Joker and The Queen

Screaming so loud,
Yet no one hears a sound.
Drowning in sorrow’s I feel tied,
Was everything I wanted just a lie?

Sculpting myself in the dark,
Fighting not to fall apart.
But when I was drowning, I learned to breathe,
Is wanting happiness a dream or just greed?

I’m the problem, Known to all,
Is finally time for my imaginary empire to fall.

Bejeweled, the peacock in her feathery glory,
Enchants each passerby to tell her story.
Her way with words, allures them all,
She gleams with pride; she stands tall.

A woodpecker, wears its crimson crown,
Its artistry turns down a frown.
Builds his home, upon a log,
Persists through rain or fog.

Peacock teaches the woodpecker its wicked game,
Gives the woodpecker a taste of fame.
Woodpecker works day and night,
Threatens the peacock, gives her a fright.

The woodpecker, praised for his newfound grace,
Notices the peacock, disdain on her face.
He asks her softly  , the cause of her dismay,
Her voice cold and dead, begins to say.

“Your craft is weak, yet you think it’s great?
You still have time, it’s not to late.
If I see it again, it'll drive me mad,
Oh, honey! Its the truth, aren’t they all bad?”

Woodpecker stunned, as she keeps saying more,
Feels his crown fall on the floor.
With care for his pride,
He ponders and delves into a stride.

He says-
“Insecurity buried deep—that’s fine.
But why must you extinguish your friends’ shine.”
Speaking less but saying more,
He flies off to a better shore.

(The Spark)

Two souls collide, in crowded halls,
Strange, yet somehow,it felt home.
Strangers pass, in their silk shawls,
And just like that, I wrote you in all of my poems.

(The Starting Point)

Twin flames ignite,
Blonde hair, blue eyes.
Over burnt coffee,
Did I get awarded a Trophy?

(Rural Escape)

Bustling crowds,
devoid us of peaceful shrouds.
Empty roads, simplicity calls,
We drive away from the city.

(First Cracks)

Love grows,
our guard blows.
Souls bare,
Chances of a scar,
Oh! So very rare.
But all fate does is wait and stare.

(Boiling point)

Wine-spilled on the rug,
Shards of glass on the oakwood floor.
Why my hands once so snug,did you pull away?
My boat sunk, before it reached to your shore.

(Shattered)

I’m awaken with dread,
Pounding nails in my head.
Lost my home, to love’s cruel claim,
Everything is gone, what a shame.

(kintsugi)

Flames subside,
Pain resides.
A new dawn breaks, A New Hope.
A brand new day.

You left your typewriter in my apartment,
Straight from The Tortured Poets Department.
Your antics made you look so classic,
Lost in the world of your semantics.

My veins of pitch black ink at a chokehold,
As I yearn to begin again with a new fold.
At your worst, I was here first.

As I enter into evidence, the story of us.
I had to recall why I made such a fuss.
The allure of you had me drawn to you,
Pulled by a siren’s call.
Rising from the waves, at the brink of night
I left it all.

I wonder how you ended up with me,
Hatred spread like roots from a twisted tree.
I know you inside and out,
I don’t know how I survived all those sweet nothings
right out your tainted mouth.
Remember when you pushed me over a stout?

The first cracks in this happy-ever-after,
The silence that swallowed my laughter.
They say,
What’s not broken, don’t fix it.
Kintsugi finds beauty in the broken,
But the crimson-laced pieces,
The caricature of our faces,
Bolted into the typewriter’s fresh white pages.
Shattered and broken,
were left as my only token.