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Her hair at noon
Tied in a messy bun
She rides her scooter
with the speedometer
between 35-45kph
She has to pick up her children from school

She rides pillion
Her hair flipping wildly in the wind
As she speaks with her rider
A smile spread across her face
Phone in her right hand
Carefreeness of youth

Draped in a silk saree
Colour scheme, white and gold
She wears a red dot between her brows
Hair worn loose, adorned with a string of jasmine
Riding slow, skilfully skipping potholes
A festival to celebrate back home
Written 13th July
I was  inspired by a young girl riding pillion with her friend on a bike
These stories were ours.

Meant for you and me.
Reader and writer.
Not divine, not secret, but still sacred.

They were already shared.  
But never with her.
Never for Fate.

This story, this grief.
It was never hers to interpret.
And yet she reached in.

She stole verses I gave to you.
She twisted what was ours,
Into something she could sing for herself.

These are the pieces she dug out.
What was previously shared,
Now tainted by her intrusion.

They were torn out from their homes,
And stitched where they did not belong,
Not by my choice,

But by her trespass.



x https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5066755/nightmare/

x https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5021519/prestige/

x https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136316/suppressium-the-dignicide-doctrine/

x https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136315/mistys-journey/

x https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5034083/blood-upon-the-sunrise/

x https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5046928/the-answer-shall-be-revealed/

x https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136318/****-me-kindly/

x https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5037300/we-got-green-eyes/

x https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5036128/do-you-praise-the-sword-or-the-man/

x https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5044542/shoot-shoot-shoot/

x https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136317/diamond-devil-vs-iron-angel/



But she did not stop there,
No.
She pried beyond what was spoken.

She infiltrated beyond what was documented.
She didn't stop at memory.
She wanted what hadn't become language yet.

These stories were mine.
Unwritten, unfinished, unposted.
Still fluid within the shelter of thought.


Still private.
Still alive.


But she couldn't wait,
To pull threats from the mind,
To taint not just the lesson,

But the source.

Now she knows what even you don't.
She has seen what has yet to be shared.
Not as a privilege,

As a threat.



So if you, reader, choose to stay,

Do so as one who understands the gravity of patience.
This is not entertainment.
This is reclamation.

At least, it is the attempt.
Because success is not guaranteed,
When she is still listening.

So then, let this be a warning.


In the chaos of your ideas,
And the silence between your thoughts,
Beware what parasites may linger.

If you think your mind is private,
Yours alone,
You may be mistaken.


Neither reality nor fiction,
Has a right,
To invade your mind.

Yet both,
Will do whatever it takes,
To steal it for themselves.



Learn from my mistakes.

You can't keep her out.
She will force her way in.

Fate is already looking through your eyes.
All she needs now is your voice.


So when all else is taken,
When she occupies your mind,
Speak from your thoughts,

Not hers.


Don't lend your voice to anyone.
You can't help but think others' thoughts,
But you had better speak your own words.
This intermission serves as optional context for Paralogue C (https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5099132/wont-you-bear-with-me-through-this-moment-of-weakness/).


We will soon return, to the story, of 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑊𝑎𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔.


https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136314/the-wings-of-waiting/
Shut down.
Rejected.
Left out to dry.

Options,
Elective,
Might soon pass you by.

Don’t get
Dejected.
I’ll tell you why.

You’re not
Infected.
You’re still getting by

You just need
Perspective,
Not sugary lies.

So just be
Reflective,
See your limit’s the sky.

Then not to the
Collective,
But to the moonlight,

You’ll be
Connected.
And find peace in the night.

Tribute
Erected.
It’ll all be alright.
Languid prickly pear.
Ashen, voracious sky lay waste.
bruise Earth.

Prickly languid pear.
Hold fast against the wilted branch.

Thank the tree for its regard;
the limb that decayed the least.
                              O' how my will hangs
                              as I do above the death
                              who brought us this rot
Pear, languid and prickly.
Tenacious pride claws and bites
at morbid despair and lonesome longing;
                                                        ­           neither victorious.

Ashen sky dust and burn the peel

Languid pear.
Pain felt from
the dying of the limb that had more than
you in the end

Resentment tucked between the anguish.
Who brought us this rot?
                              O' how this will fades
                              unable to deliver
                              the cut that will end
The branch snaps.

Languid.
World devoid;
the will of which persists.
 4d
Ami Mathur
How strange it is—
A seeker never gets a glimpse of the swan.
But a reckless peasant sees them everywhere.

Once you stop moving aggressively and take cautious, calm steps,
You’ll begin to see their glimpses all around.

The question is:
How can a seeker turn himself back into a peasant?
Has love turned him into something else?

How strange it is—
In life, we keep running to achieve; to gain; to find; or to discover
Running in and Running out—
Only to lose our souls and the time — it runs out.
A swan unaware—
There was a seeker once who kept her as a reverie
To the grave.
Strange again yet a dearly held reverie.
Will the Seeker ever find his Swan?
 6d
C Conner
I cannot sleep for in the street
A thousand mournful cries
The skies are red and carnage spread
Through a thousand lies

From mourning bells to fairy tales
A Criticism said
For city streets and summer heat
Torments whose left with dread

And clouds smother men as they roll in
A hard rain will come
Lightning strikes like the crack of live bones
And the hoarse words of Cain’s son

And I hear the cries of the
Children - the ones lost
In the dark

I know they want a future,
But I fear
They lost the spark
 7d
irinia
All we need is darkness
for the natural selection of light
I watch the past as a travel show
the necessity or adversity ignites language,
different shapes of games, we like the power plays
of circle
let me be sealed in a wave
I want to descend to the faith of sand
to the Cro-Magno vision of words
i watch the raindrops
how
they slid from the leaves,
and slide
without holding on to the air,
drawing circles
on the face of the
river,
from the Center
towards the outside,
without a compass,

the circles grow
and grow
until the sound of a
trumpet swallows them,
announcing the flight
of the morning
on the wings of the
horizon,

i watch the raindrops
how
they slid from the leaves,
and slide
without holding on to the air,
drawing circles
on the face of the
river,
from the Center
towards the outside,
without a compass,

the circles grow
and grow
until the sound of a
trumpet swallows them
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