So unlike winter,
Her pieces are not melancholic.
Not like spilled ink on paper,
That takes it so well.
She is merry.
Exploring the shine of smile,
The charm of life,
Rather than contemplating on,
The drops of pearls,
The hell of turmoil.
O! Look how intricately she weaves,
The beauty of nature,
From the eyes of a lover.
But she missed much.
The disturbance at sea,
The life's at stake.
She loves the warmth of touch,
The urge to meet,
But has she experienced,
The grief of lost,
The cold of solitary.
Nothing is beyond her love.
Look how she holds his hand,
Thinking moment like these are eternal.
She hasn't been choked by smoke of betrayal.
Always appreciating the start,
The good,
Does she even knows there's an end, there is evil?
Is her life perfect?
No.
It's like the beautifully engraved golden tombs,
But she cares less to expose her wounds.
She knows the cry of burnt,
The hues of heartbreak,
The loneliness of dark,
The alienation of autumn.
Death every moment.
She hates what's momentary
But has overtook all lives.
A step in other world,
Where eternal is cherished.
A move to bring sunshine on a cold, stormy night.
She is like you,
But the only difference is,
She doesn't writes sad pieces.