Golden light dims, warmth drifts away,
Yet the souls linger, refusing decay.

Leaves may redden, branches fall bare,
Frost may slip quietly into the air,
But still, the souls survive the turn,
A flame in the ash, a voice that will burn.

Seasons may change, as they always must,
And bodies may fade back into dust,
But souls, once born, will never die—
They rise, eternal, as the souls fly.
We breathe with the wind that stirs the grass,
Tracing shadows as moments quietly pass.

Sunlight drifts, soft and slow,
But, I think,
The souls never learn what it means to grow.
In my thought they must have to learn it,
They must have to die, to respect those fleet.

Why they survive? why they fly?
Is it true? The silken way they lie!
If Leaves may redden, if branches fall bare,
Should they not cry? to tribute what’s fair!
If Frost may slip quietly into the air,
So, why do they not sleep— is it fair?

I think souls just bow where all must die,
Only through this way do they learn to rise and fly.
We all know the answer, clear and plain,
Souls always bow, to break the chain.
The soul has its own part, yet it hides—
Only eternal love lives, while all else dies.
#thought

🥀 The Curse I Became — 🦋 and the ruins I left behind

When she starts to curse me, it’s not the daggers I see fall,
Each word not a wound, each whisper not a call.
For me, I am just trying to light up my dream,
Following the path that I self esteem.

But slowly her voice turns a storm in the skies,
It cuts through my soul, it bleeds through my eyes.

The silence grows heavy, the air starts to sting,
Her curses take flight on a black-feathered wing.
They linger like fire that burns in the night,
A wound with no healing, a scar out of sight.

I am no longer what I used to be,
Her curses have carved their mark into me.
The dreams I once held have withered away,
Like petals that fade in the cold of decay.

She took me apart with each venomous word,
A silence that screamed, a pain left unheard.
Slowly she stripped all the light I could see,
A thief in the dark unmaking my plea for a fee.

Yet deep in the ruin, a whisper survives,
A spark in the ashes, a soul that still strives.
For wounds may remind me of where I have bled,
But scars are the proof that I rise where she’s tread.

I am no longer what I used to be — it’s blurred,
But stronger I stand in the wreckage of her, still coloured.
#thought

⧉ (The Path That Moves Within)

Sometimes I smiled, at the quote I wrote,
thinking about future,
replica shown — the way she brought.

Umm…
I just want to hold her,
accountable tight.
She always hides herself in clouds,
and wears the moon’s light.

I think one-sided love will **** me at divine,
will get me more write — sore and shine.

I hope,
if there any scope.
Whenever it happens — in a week the days will be nine,
that day, definitely,
she’ll love me more than mine.

Strangely aligned,
how the one read one’s mind —
and what a blessing it was;
there would be a fewer misunderstanding in future, I thought.
#thought

Just as the little shuttles for,
finished, in the loom on the row.

Unnoticed threads flow, seamlessly wrong,
creating a pattern both intricate and strong.

Each throw of the shuttle behind a thousand threads,
Their diverse colours and textures form a rich on heads.

"In teamwork, every effort is a thread,
to the final fabric, of success on the head.

The rhythm of life, much like the weaver's hands,
intertwines our choices and destinies"

In the modern digital age,
every online interaction is another thread,

expanding the vast network of human connections,
Though the threads may seem insignificant alone.

together they create beautiful complex designs,
and I'm sure that's how our shared existence is.
#thought

When the body works hard and breath comes shallow,
it speaks of struggle, effort, a drive that narrows.
A pulse that quickens to push through the strain,
a sign of life, a battle, a gain.

But when someone say your words sound shallow,
it cuts, stings like a sudden shadow –
because words should breathe deep, pull from the core?
not just skim the surface, but speak of more?

Shallow cuddles, skin-close and thin,
hardly seem the way into derail
a reckoning long due,
where my words shouldn't clash,
unraveling the threadbare seams
we've held between us.

In the pause, breath touches breath,
and the words, once sharp and waiting,
dissolve into the warmth of skin –
soft, simple, silent.

So I've draws shallow breaths, tight and thin,
like threads that bind the breaking within.
Sweat traces maps down a weathered face,
each line a journey, a quiet embrace.

The weight I bears in every stride,
heavier than air, yet light inside.
For in the labor, I finds my claim,
a whispered truth, a rising flame.

Because the shallow breath, though brief and small,
holds the pulse of the fight, the rise, the fall.
It marks the moments I did not yield,
and that's why it comes – my harvest, my field.
#thought

✦The Rewriting

She had expected the story to stop at some point.
But it didn’t.
It only multiplied.

With every turn of the page,
she saw the world reshape itself.
The walls that once surrounded her—
the ones she knew by heart—
shifted in her peripheral vision,
as though they were not walls at all,
but thoughts held in place by gravity.

She read on.
And she realized—
she was no longer in the room
she thought she was in.
The book was now the room.
The words were walls,
furniture,
the air between them.

“The choices you make write the door.
You are no longer entering.
You are creating it.”

It was almost like breathing,
this new act of creation.
Each sentence she read
dissolved into the next,
and with it, she felt herself
becoming something else—
someone else.

The edges of her own name
blurred,
became vague
as if it had been written
with water.

“This is not the end,”
he whispered from the pages,
his voice a ripple in the air.
“You have always been here,
but you’ve never seen this place until now.”

She closed her eyes
and felt the world continue to write itself.
The journal was no longer just ink.
It was a map—
and every choice she made
shifted the coordinates.
When she opened her eyes again,
the room had become a mirror.
A thousand versions of herself
watched from behind the glass.

She was both the writer
and the story.
She was both the beginning and the end.
And the only question left:
Was she writing this world—or living in it?
#thought

✦The Elsewhere Draft: For Her.

The first word was hers.
The second was his.
And with the third,
she was no longer sure
who was writing whom.

She read it out loud,
letting the unfamiliarity twist her tongue
like it belonged to a time before.
Before she even knew his story.
Before she knew hers.

It didn’t stop.
The page turned,
but the ink never dried.
Each sentence dissolved
into the next,
erasing what came before.

It was both hers and not hers—
a story that had been written for her
but wasn’t yet hers to claim.

She turned the page again.
And with it,
she felt the room shift.
Not in space—
but in time.

The walls seemed to recede,
and yet—
they weren’t gone.
They were simply rearranged.

And there he was.
Not in the room—
not in the way she remembered—
but in The Story script,
his voice faint but undeniable.

She shut the book.
No longer afraid.
But no longer certain.
The story had already moved
beyond where she had expected it to go.

She wasn’t just reading anymore.
She wasn’t just revising.
She was rewriting the space between them.

"I wrote you in because you were never meant to be an observer."
#thought