I am the sufferer and you are my God.
I thirst for ******* and defy you not.
I take delight in your daily abuse.
I am the victim and you are my muse.

Oh! mother where are the snow falls of yester years?
Where are the great king Ashoka and the world master Sankaracharya?
Where is the ujjayani that was immersed in the literary effluence of
The great dramatist Kalidasa?

Where is the light that shone from the piercing eyes of the warrior
Queen Rudrama Devi and the Goddess Durga?
Where are the snow falls of yester years?

Where is the buzzing sound of the bees that came from the corridors
Of the great king Shajahan? Where are the echoing sounds of the war monger
The sword Thikkana?Where is the gallooping white horse climbed by the unconquerable warrior queen of Jhansi Lakshmi Bai?
Where are the snow falls of yester years?

Where is the fire that emanated from the broad shoulders of
The inimitable king and connoisseur of art, Sree Krishna devaraya?

What happened to the living breaths of Balachandra, the young warrior
And brahmanaya, The great warrior and social reformer?
Where are the snow falls of yester years?

Where are the kings, the great poets, the warriors, the chaste queens?
Where have they gone?

Where are the foot prints of the golden wings of time that fanned and fled?
Oh! Mother, Where are the snow falls of yester years? Where are the snow falls of yester years?

Puzzle pieces that don't quite fit
We're two cogs that never meshed
How we turned, twisted, writhed
To fit in the molds we've left behind
We're older now, and yet wiser not
Our excuses are inexcusable
And our tongues too sharp
The sarcasm and vitriolic words
Burned acidic through every
Relationship that could have bloomed
And yet at the end of the day
We'd turn to each other and wonder
What was so wrong with the world
To turn our wondrous selves away

The word,
Rested For just a while>>>then went on...aGain.

Try? I'd rather do.
Then make it all seem like it's less for you.
Perhaps we'd have got along better,
If all those mishaps were "probably not".
Stop
I'd have rather,
But who's still listening?
We let these things go,
Though still know,
That the extroverted world is listening.

She knows that I now
It's all still part of fantasy.

For her lack in interest of anything of mine,
Her subtle peace of knowing why,
Makes my bones quiver.

She's something I'd never realized I'd ignored,
Her curls, her peace,
Her shy, her eyes,

Maybe I was wrong.