The practice, quotidian duty to the aim,
the goal, the offering of self,
will and all, in a hope some
witness in their spirits.
Premyelinated young adults,
abating breath, to hold a thought
zooming, to the post war mind state,
presumed to be a dank monk's cell,
peace vacuum, empty but of words
boasting in stories told of works done
battlefield conversions, witnessed
where ever war has made believers,
of any with survival will
to prove the experience,
practice making good enough,
this got to it state, got it, got the proof,
spiritual, mental marks of exclusion,
blank eyed stare, unforgettable visions, yes,
see here, in the tween twixt you and us, we

the lost minds used by many who once left
being, just left being
by many who once knew

the art of keeping bees can be calming,
I imagine, but never have attempted the art.

Most learners leave as users entranced
by the evidence in the dance.

they've all become so desensitized,
drinking their coffee and watching people die.
and some part of the world
preaches values of kindness and peace,
but the weapons they've sold
are used every day to take lives of kids.
and they don't see the irony
of protecting borders, from what exactly?
when even survivors are getting tired,
when there's no hell deeper down, yet we still continue descending,
when every next morning comes with a list of names, lost to the fire,
they all would rather pretend it's a fiction,
                         a story,
                                       a lie,
drinking their coffee and watching people die.

Somewhere in a high castle, time stands still,  
Sleeping beauty sleeps against her own will.  
Certain dreams just bide their time,  
In hope for a love so sublime.

In her siesta so deep, many lessons speak,
 In a quiet breath, in gentle sleep.  
Patience is foremost as the world will turn,
 At every dawn, there is a chance to learn.

While she sleeps , wisdom is found,  
That karma is real and everything eventually comes around.  
It’s kindness that wins the day,
And it's resilience that finds the way.

Her patience  teaches us the  fate’s embrace,
That achievements doesn't  use force but consistent grace.
To trust the journey , and just let it be,
And after a while you shall see.

A gentle peck on her lips, a love’s true call,
Awakens a desire that fears no fall.
In silence a lot of dreams are spun,
Boldly facing your life trials , you  know you have already won.

So even when you sleep , keep alive your  dreams,
For life’s not always what it seems.
Make sure that new seed is sown,
And through your patience, you will see  that you have grown

Work hard with no  rush or strife,
But with the calm knowledge of knowing life.
Because Sleeping Beauty’s tale is definitely true,
The lesson learnt here is that the  greatest strength lies deep within you.

©Priyanka Bhagat

When I was five,
my mother told me I was loved.
Years later, she asked me to leave because
I was the reminder of the gruesome past that haunted her.

When I was ten,
my father told me he believed in me.
Years later, he refused to accompany me because
I was an embarrassment to him in front of the society.

When I was fifteen,
my friends told me I was funny.
Years later, they all laughed at me because
I was the gullible teenager who fell for their flawless façade.

When I was twenty,
this guy said I was beautiful.
Years later, he trashed me, tormented me because
I was ignorant enough to overlook my inevitable flaws.

So, sorry for not believing in you,
for questioning your intentions, inclusively, in-depth
when you told me you loved me because
I didn’t want to wind up years later,
learning it the hard way that people often don’t mean what they say.

In a garden kissed by the morning dew,
A rosebud dreams, its petals few.
Wrapped in green, held tight and low,
It longs to bloom, but fears to grow.

The sun shines bright, a guiding light,
“Rise and shine, embrace your fight!”
But the earth holds firm, the roots dig deep,
Each sip a struggle, each step to leap.

The wind whispers soft, “You’ve got this, just wait,
Break the chains, embrace your fate.”
But doubt sneaks in, whispers of fear,
“Will I bloom? Will I appear?”

Through stormy nights and endless trials,
The rosebud fights, mile by mile.
Each thorn a victory, each tear a sign,
Of a journey hard, yet purely divine.

Then one day, with gentle grace,
The bud breaks free, reveals its face.
Petals unfold, in vibrant hue,
A story of strength, in colors true.

For in every struggle, beauty’s born,
A rose that blooms, from dusk till dawn.
And all who witness, all who see,
Find hope in how this rose came to be.

©Priyanka Bhagat

Chain smoking sadness, slapped by time.
Winter doesn't freeze the pain.
There was one thing that
Mom wanted desperately:
It was to have a
picture of her
seven kids all together,
in one place,
at one time.
There was an age
difference of 23 years between the
youngest and the oldest,
and 1000 miles separating us.

In December of 1987
two weeks before Christmas,
I held a picture of
the seven of us all together.
I put it in the
right front pocket of
her navy blue blazer.
After the funeral,
we buried her with it.
Oh, Mom, I wish we
could have done this
when you were alive.

The days crawl by like
tortoises.
My purpose is obscured by
***** nights, and
raven-haired sadness.
Naked branches of
the maple trees dance in
the autumn wind, and
leaves rustle in
the dead grass;
all burnt orange and yellow ocher.
They're like a
little surreal sunrise.
Hope
is eternal.