What an undying fantasy
that flickers through her downcast face,
painting over a somber portrait.

So I searched for the cause of that mirth,
which I thought was long due.
Was it due to the divine fugue
which we sat listening?

So I treated it as a quest,
to quench the unrest
that seems perennial;
and a genial sunshine for
growth and comfort would be favourable.

And a grand chorus would fill the room
but not wash-away the fear and gloom
that has been gathered.

Alas, with every act I weakened!
Hence, I let the symphony
fill-in the quiet of the entire room.

Through the sudden mist of fiery eyes
and the most enticing tresses,
of grey, black and white
pressing against her head.
A pear, so pale and dilapidated;
with a stick grabbed to support that gait.

She’s covered in white, or any shade
that explains her weary state
Vanity or verve, she has none,
for all the opposition she has faced.

A little crack on her lips
with uneasiness and much force,
for she has lived all her life,
devoted to petty chores.

An ode to her should be sublime,
One that exalts her to the stars.
Yet, none could i offer, but a mirthless stare
Once her body was laid-down, bare
for mother earth,
to consume and inhume,
As i watched with unspoken guilt.

How does one depart from misery
                    That grows like vine;
When bare abetment from beloved
                     Is sublime.



When a cloud of disquiet cloaks thee,
       Self-loathing and disdain become
                     a moral decree.