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No love is true or false
Love is love
Same for all
Sacred and pure.

It is just that
Some people love and
some only pretend.
If you were to ask
why I write
so much about love

Well, what can I say -

The Taj Mahal is my inspiration.
from India, with love.
If I love you enough ,
my love will find a way
to your heart .

No,I don't believe in miracles -
it is my love
that I trust.
I often ask myself :

"Why is it so easy to die
for someone you love ,
and yet so hard to live on
for someone who cares?"
Joy is a sunflower in bloom,
a burst of yellow laughter in the throat of dawn—
it dances barefoot through fields
where even the scarecrows smile.

Sadness seeps in shades of blue,
an ocean swallowing lullabies whole,
waves cradling broken boats
and the moon’s reflection—shivering.

Anger is a match lit red,
flickering like a war drum’s pulse,
a wildfire in the chest,
burning bridges before they’re crossed.

Fear creeps in gray,
a mist dragging its feet through alleyways,
whispers behind curtains,
the silence before a scream.

Love is crimson spun with rose,
a heartbeat wrapped in silk,
sometimes soft, sometimes savage—
a fire that kisses and consumes.

Peace wears the hush of lavender light,
a hammock beneath wind-whispered trees,
a breath drawn slowly,
unfolding like petals in spring.

Hope is the color of sky brushed gold,
a sunrise you almost missed,
a window cracked open
in a room you thought was locked.

Loneliness is the aching indigo,
stars you can see but never touch,
a winter coat with no one inside,
quiet as a room full of eyes.

Jealousy glints a poison green,
a vine curling where it’s not wanted,
something sour behind the smile,
a mirror cracked just slightly.

Gratitude glows in soft orange,
a hearth with arms,
warmth that hums
even when the fire’s low.

Shame is a dusty blush of muted brown,
an old coat you never meant to wear,
muddy footprints you try to clean
before anyone sees.

Confidence roars in emerald and royal violet,
a cloak stitched with thunder,
feet firm on the earth
as the sky bends to meet your eyes.
A stone
cannot be broken
but bent inside—
its fault lines
only strain
in harsh weather.

It does not
try to lift
or roll away—
just taught
to keep
its hurt
under hard gray
quiet.

It will stay
where it fell—
move only
if you kick it
or push it
away—
feeling nothing
but your hurt.

What bleeds
in you
only makes me
a stronger
boulder—
don’t hurt
just be calm
and come lean
against me.
Wisteria blooms
Spring faeries come out at dusk
Keep the porch light on
 Apr 4 Vianne Lior
amrutha
i light the oil lamp
flame tongue flickers
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