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I've put you to sleep with a song,
And you sleep like a rarity,
Lying deep in a treasure chest,
Veiled by the lure of ample gold.

And my lullaby continues,
Yes, much like a prayer it does,
In a mellow light pouring in,
From the stained glass that your church boasts.

But as my voice grows fragile,
This lullaby might go quiet;
Insnity might condemn me,
To deem you dead, to deem love gone.

And thus, I must wait and see,
If you'd remember what I said,
"Lest I should ever think love dead,
Wake up and say, 'It's not, it's not'."
Inspired by Isabella's Lullaby composed by Takahiro Obata. I had no idea what was I was writing. This poem doesn't even make sense to me.
Hark, while the wasteland breathes out silent whims,
And see, as night's aura cloaks distant trees;
A sinister echo of ancient hymns,
Floats up, in a creeping midsummer breeze.

As the miles sum up - an anxious bearing,
Rushes a vague fright up the fragile spine;
But with the city lights on watch, nearing,
This unsettling fear slides down the incline.

The unattended anxiety does go,
Which this travel in the dark did arise;
City lights torch a new fret although,
But far less weary, it, in question, lies.

Wearisome measures of the restless nights,
Merit resistance by the city lights.
Based on what traveling away from home to another city feels like to me.
A hundred well-metered verses written,
In praise, fall too short, in numbers too few;
And with the lengthened thoughtless hours smitten,
I stay charmed with her eye's impatient hue.

Blind will I go and believe all your lies,
A death will I die for each of your eyes.
Let you be the first thing I behold
On days, the morning sun feels worthless,
On days, the ***** sky seems dusty gray,
On days, the summer wind makes the trees look pale.

And on days, the bags under my eyes mourn life itself,
And on days, the screaming kid next door wakes me,
And on days, the things that I ******* up make me regret.

But I earnestly wish that you be the first thing I behold,
On beautiful sunless noons, when the clouds sing as a choir,
So I could tell you that you look lovely;

And on mid-winter mornings, when gusty wind stops to see the silent grass-blades holding timid dewdrops,
So I could tell you that you look lovely;

And on nights when the drowsy sky stands embroidered with the cosmic jewelry,
So I could tell you that you look lovely.

Let you be the first thing I behold,
So I could tell you that you look lovely,
Each and every day, 'Till death do us part'.
The title 'Till Death Do Us Part' is a part of some traditional wedding vows.
A lean plain-faced insignificant figure,
With a green ribbon around his neck holding a card,
Dressed in the same khaki clothes everyday,
Walks the walk of an old ghost that knows,
Where it has come from,
But has just been denied redemption.
Rather, he has been cursed,
With an object-less stare,
An ear deaf to the world around - and,
Long pointless hours, forcing him to give in,
To a world, he merely dared to live in.
Greetings, Sky.
I have been away.
It's been years,I reckon.
But I have not forgotten how tenderly you cradled me like the grandmother I never had.
I loved you like a love dream and you loved me back.
And yes,I remember,
How like a ball was every night,when the stars danced to sweet cosmic tunes!
How like an encounter with God Himself, Reading to me the story of creation!
But how like a dream,
It ended!

I came to you the other night,
For the sake of a humble discourse.
I talked at the top of my lungs,
And you didn't answer.
Everything has changed.
I must add,
That friend who often visited you with me,
The one who was very fond of you,
Wants to rid himself of his own existence now.
But so would I wish on myself, should you remain indifferent,any longer.
Why! God!
Why the inevitability of certain circumstances handicaps us, to even practise our own will?

I,thus in shame cry and bid you adieu,
And I pray we mend our friendship anew!
Come, Friend.
I'll show you around the house and tell you all the trivial things that remind me of her.
(Here in the hallway)
These stacked, empty shoeboxes,
That I now keep my poems in,
These bare walls that I suppose,
She could make a better use of,
(In the living room)
This monochrome vintage tv,
That she'd have thrown out,
My books lying haphazardly on the table,
That she'd have cleared up,
My guitar that hasn't been restrung for 7 months,
The pictures of Dutch tulip fields,
The multilingual posters on the wall behind the TV,
Like a pretentious polyglot,
(Now,the kitchen)
And this bitter fragrance of tea leaves,
This divine scent of cardamom,
Rising from a hot cup of tea,
The rattle of kettles,
These dying rose petals,
Parmesan and cheddar,
The cheesier the better,
All of that pickled food,
According to my mood,
The battle of spices,
Those gingerbread slices,
Everything reminds me of her.
"She's but a figment of your imagination,friend."
She's but a figment of my imagination, friend?
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