Open fields
And barren lands.
Vacant minds, tired souls,
Reaching into the void,
Bearer of bad news.
Let the minstrel sing
Till the wake of dawn.
Spirit, broken,
Soul unquenchable.
As morning light shines,
The darkness within grows.
Sorrow is silent
This song, dire.
Only from your eyes,
Like a river,
These tears will flow.
Abandoned, lost,
Forgotten, forlorn.
Donned in radiant white
Yet the heart, black as coal.
Strip the world of this illusion,
Be consumed by the fire,
*Fear not the truth.

She goes by many names,
like the devil…
‘she, her, woman,
MOTHER.

No one else in this unruly world
can wound and shred me
to the very bone…
not like her,
never like her.

She never understood me,
never really cared to, not at all,
though she’ll swear otherwise,
but,
both I and those that know me
know that she doesn’t ‘get me’
AT ALL.

Don’t tell HER that though,
or even THINK about
contradicting or challenging
her word.

Her word is scripture!

I’ve also gone by various names,
names that spilled so easily
from her wicked tongue…
‘loser, quitter,
pathetic, too fragile,
bad attitude,
mentally ill…for no
good reason
(I was just BORN crazy,
not her fault…never).

More often than not
her conversations
(or rather, monologues)
with me (AT me)
consist of pointing out
my every wrong
(in her superior opinion).

My greatest crime?
NOT BEING LIKE HER,
‘matter of fact she has always
been a great lesson to me
of what NOT to be.

I am a much better mother.
I sometimes forget
(when her voice booms in my head)
yet I DO know that,
without an ounce of doubt.

I can tell, when my boys look at me
and smile with utter adoration
in their beautiful eyes.

I can tell, when they want to
constantly hug me and remind me
how much they love me.
My best friend, all those who
truly have come to know me in
life, seem to think I’m pretty cool.

I know that too, though I
often forget
(when her voice booms in my head).

She taught me…
to fear (everything and everyone),
to rage (only on the inside…God
forbid I expressed anger or hurt).

Some have called me
BRAVE.
I never saw or understood that.
At times I still don’t.

When my firstborn died,
in my arms, before his time,
people called me ‘brave’ because
‘I took it so well’.
I didn’t. A piece of me died
with him that day.

Though I’m often terrified, to
even put one foot in front of
the other I do it every day,
for my sons.

I have always been afraid…
of most everything, most
everyone,
yet I rise each day, pushing past
the depression and fear,
swallowing the bitter tears
and I get up and do what must be done.

Isn’t that what courage is?
Doing something, even while
you tremble in your boots?

I do that very thing.

Guess that does qualify me
as being BRAVE.



-by Mercurychyld
Copyright 30 Jan 15

She is the lady on the road.

She is a mother, a sister, a colleague, a bird, a lassie, a damsel.
She is the lady on the road.

She spreads love and enriches kindness in the society,
She is the crux of an organization, and the fundamental principles.
She is the lady on the road.

She twinkles with the stars and shimmers with the moon,
She scampers with her pets and hops like a frog,
She is not a nomad, but a faithful keeper.
She is the lady on the road.

She wears short skirts,
She wears tight tops,
She doesn't encourage the flirts,
She neither abominates the leering of cops.
She is the lady on the road.

She holds a honourable reputation,
She forms the base of ethical standards,
She buries the grudges and resolves the dissension,
She consolidates herself and maintains her fettle,
She is the epitome of cheerful disposition.
She is the lady on the road.

She ignores the catcalls,
She endures the torture and prevails her morale,
She is a monument unshakable, and a stone unbreakable,
She dumps her burdens and enlightens her destiny,
She protects her dignity and negotiates with denunciation,
She does no harm, but deals with it.
She is the lady on the road, ..the seventh wonder of the world.

The velvet cover aroused a cringe inside,
With the touch to the diary with his wrinkled hand,
And the stolid shiver began to subside,
Pouring grin over his face, as the pages were scanned.

He stared at the words, turning the pages leisurely,
Every line he read, triggered  mild sentiments,
Not very severe but gentle and silly,
Soothing and abating the repressed resentments.

The diary delineated the stories behind each verse,
With hues of despair and projections of curse,
Depicting doleful goodbyes and cheerful handshakes,
All of them crushing and sinking into the filthy lakes.

Hopping from one stanza to another,
He slowed down his pace as he moved further,
Like the dormancy of his brain and the moments gray,
The lines reminded him of his birthday.

"I'm a poem, you'd liked to take a glance at,
I'm candle you will blow, I'm the feather on your hat,
I'm the words in your veins, I'm the verses you make,
I'm the lyrics on your lips,  I'm the name on your birthday cake."