"It was rather beautiful;
The way she put her insecurities to sleep,
And the way he dove into her eyes and starved
All the fears and tasted all the dreams,
She kept beneath her bones."

Poetry can’t be a limitation
Words radiating the poet’s imagination
Transcending beyond mere understanding
Poetry mesmerizes the soul and heart
Words beyond the regular
Reading between the lines, to decipher
For Poetry shall remain forever
Lyrical hymns, always hummed by poem lovers
Surviving the centuries, and beyond
Poetry can pay tribute, to unspoken feelings
From poet to poet and from poems to poems
A rich legacy will weave intricate Art

In the garden, which once bloomed
Is left with dry leaves and weeds
Unattended by any gardener
Shrubs and hedges grown out of proportion
Even the walls have been claimed by poison ivy
No visitor here, in this forlorn patch
Dried and desolated, bereft of all the juice
It can’t sustain beauty anymore
Reminiscing, its heyday, the bird’s paradise
Variety of flowers, thronged by bees
Sweetest of nectar have once been tasted
The wooden bench, discolored, and weary
Once part of the romantic words exchanged
Between lovers, and a place to rest
For the elderly couples, trying to revive old memories
Garden itself is now a part of memory
Listening to so many anecdotes, happy or gloomy
Yet, the garden, was paradise once
Welcoming everyone with open arms
Now past its prime, it’s in a dilapidated state
Not a soul to tend its broken heart
No one will be there, to mourn the loss of paradise

I'm just a dreamer under the moon
Etching out lines on a paper, no one knows.
They see me in another world,
Far off, aloof, distant and forlorn.
You look at me, with the eyes of a spectator,
Do I look so funny to you?
Can you see these sad eyes,
Watching you make no difference
As you go on with your taunts
And poorly worded chants?
I'm a dreamer, with a world inside my head
I can create a magic, within.
Then bring it out with just some words.
I am a dreamer, under the moon,
Penchant to writing,
Adding colors and dimensions
To dimly lit corridors,
To green fields that
welcome the morning sun.
Painting darkness and light with
The subtle strokes of my mind.
Sculpturing a woman or a man
Their life, and all their strife.
I am a dreamer, under the moon
The pen, to me, is definitely
*Mightier than the sword.