Faith is revolving around the lines of fear,
and vice versa.

The cup of tea that I sip shows me that it's not up to the mark.
I advance an insight into the effects of its ingredients,
wondering why it doesn't have an exotic powder of hope.

But the color and texture of the tea are just fine,
suitable to showcase among any of the magnificent dishes.
So, I added a little mixture of hope to it.

Yet, there is the revolving and exchanging shape of faith and fear.
It has important ties, searching for some perfection.
But disappointment knocks it off with its swirling surprises.

For the enchantment of any endearing good act,
the shifting shape of fear and faith exchanges again,
appearing with its faithful, spreading sway.

The secret rainfall of life wants to offer hopeful instances
while one drinks the cup of tea that is sometimes not the adjacent choice.

©shivpoetesspriya

I felt the inner cries
Pleading not to forsake me.
The empty shine of the tears spoke of a million reasons behind a saddened heart.
It touched the smile on my face and made me realize how one can yearn
for sun's shining grace at the core of its rainy heart!

So I wiped my tears
to feel again the spread junctures with utmost faith.
With a striving smile, I remember to do this.
Thank you for always being there, touching the inner circle of my heart
and feeling your impressions within me.

©shivpoetesspriya

The joyous pink color keeps yearning to get along with the yellow light. It keeps defying the blackness that gets in the way but sadly fails.

But this time, the blackness gave up its interest in front of the pink light. The pink in me also got lucky and rejoiced with the dancing yellow light.

Yes, this time, the pink in me was able to defend itself from the blackness and won.

Later on, the blackness yearned for the shade of pink. The pink, as usual, kept yearning to mingle with the yellow light and rejoiced while dancing with the yellow color.

©shivpoetesspriya

I know we move in parallel ways,
Not together or intersecting, but always side by side.

Why is that?
Does your taste not align with mine?
In my choices, your taste is already included, as you are always remembered.

So when you are parallel with me, we don’t intersect, nor do we interact. But why is it that your direction is completely different from mine?

Is it because your taste differs that we never intersect, and also because we don’t interact?

We run parallel to search for one another,
Always closer but apart at the heart.

This I have yet to measure, but I am unable to gauge it.

I saw earlier that we were parallel to each other. We were apart, not intersecting, but closely intertwined within.

How did this happen now?
We have drifted far away from the inside.

I wish this weren't the case;
It must be my wrong conclusion in arriving at the measurement of the core of its calculation.

I really wish this weren't the case.

©shivpoetesspriya

What is the difference between a martyr who struggles until the end of their life with their beloved, to be a rose for death, and a person who struggles but is somehow saved and does not die?

What is that voice of love in their nerves that makes them a martyr, both alive and dead? What is their voice? A rose's voice for death or a rose for death?

Proceed towards death as a rose is for a lover.

They made calls of love—echoes of love—for their safety or others' safety.

Was recognition ever needed when their internal spark was recognized by their own selves?

It is always a love song for the heart, which is now a beloved rose approaching death!

©shivpoetesspriya

They lie silently,  
Amidst the green lush of serene mountains...  
The calmness within them rejoices...  

Today, the important moment has arrived.  
This single drop of a tear...  
That seems to carry the weight of oceanic feelings...  
These droplets wish... I wish to never judge you.  

The smile that shines behind the pretty actions...  
Please see me and grant this wish...  
©shivpoetesspriya

Mother, when I see you in my heart,  
I miss you.  
Mother, when I feel you in my heart,  
I kiss your feet.  
I miss you and kiss your feet.  

Mother, when I saw the moistened eyes surrounded by the wet petals of your gaze,  
I couldn't sense what was wrong.  
How did I miss them, and where did I miss them?  

Mother, when I sensed those tears,  
I struggled to feel and to accept something in me and to change, but where did I miss them?  
Where did I miss them?  

The want to feel you in my heart swept over like lightning  
and returned when it was dark; it was then that I missed you.  
The dark is a deep color; I couldn't see you.  
But I felt those tears.  
And I still miss you.  
©shivpoetesspriya