A cold heart was once the warmest
A  bitter tongue was once the sweetest
A devil was once an  angel
A cruel was once the kindest
And a villain was once a **hero

Sometimes, life is all about regrets
Regrets about the hearts we break
Regrets about the risks we take
Regrets about the friends we make
Regrets about the words we say
Regrets about the path we choose
Regrets about the things we lose
Regrets about the secrets we share
Regrets about the secrets we hear
Regrets about the promises we make
Regrets about the decision we take
Yet,
no  regrets
Is all we say.

These mountains are but a stand of trees
to the man astride that horse;
dark eyes are
massive storm clouds
or shadows cast
by towering presence
hidden in the folds
of an otherwise ordinary
brain. Power? There
is no end to this man's power
except the end
that will always march
shattering sheets of glass ice
with hooves so hard
they weather mountains.

Does he see it? The horse,
whose everyday hooves crack
one film of ice among many,
sees it; has a face
- most expressive beast on earth -
that speaks aloud
against the cold that runs fingernails along
the raw interior of her throat.

Yes, this man, like so many men,
make choices, and choices
have troubling consequences.

There is darkness
in these mountains;
because mountains stand taller
than the common countryside.
Sometimes, their height brings them closer
to the sun. At midnight, their peaks
are more distant than the depths of a gorge.

See the deeply set, tempered soul
ensconced in that man's eyes?

The horse is very,
very tired, and sees more
than mountains, icicles,
wisps of frozen cloud -
she sees beyond these and
beneath these, to a destination
frozen shut in the folds of an
otherwise ordinary brain.
Power? The horse sighs
and drips chilled mucus
on snow. Her humanity
she pours out and only a
frozen peak can see.

*There are humans
making choices
always leading
to the cold.

We need no one's approval.
We are poets, not pleaders.

She's a poem that I like to read over and over again on these lonely nights when I have nothing else to do.
I have her best verses tattooed on my skin in form of scars that I can't remove.
And whenever I am kneeling in the pool of my own tears, she's the prayer that I only know.

She's a poem that I like to read over and over again till I lose myself into the words that were once mine but no more.

Some people are not poets
They are poetry themselves

Some people are not authors
They are books themselves

Some people are not singers
They are songs themselves

Some people are not beautiful
They are beauty themselves

Some people are not modest
They are modesty themselves

And

They all exist in this world
But they don't  recognize themselves

How inhumane is the human,
Angels must be laughing
The Globe is a mess,
For them it must be shocking

Every year the child celebrates Mother's  day ,
But the respect for her with every passing day is reducing
What a great love for mother this is, angels must be mocking

A law has been issued for everyone,
But I don't see anybody following
What's wrong with the human?
Angels must be talking