Before soil met seed or the sun claimed the skies,
There bloomed Nefarys, veiled from mortal eyes
Here, blossoms rose from memory’s breath,
Unbound by season, untouched by death.

Tulip leapt bold with a whip of wild cheer,
While Sunflower spun where the sky poured clear.
Daffodil hummed where the stillness was deep,
And Marigold dreamed in the moon’s drowsy sweep.

Rose sat composed where the soft winds would land,
Her red caught the dusk like a flame in the sand.
Lotus drifted in mirrors, serene yet apart,
Her petals all closed round a hungering heart.

Azure had tended them longer than time,
Brushed every stem, tuned each petal to chime.
“Beauty,” he murmured, “will no longer be same"—
Once mortals confine it to only one name.”

Lotus, half-shadow and moon-painted calm,
Heard Azure's lament like a break in a psalm.
“They’ll crown one as Beauty,” the tiller had sighed—
And something within him curled inward and dried.

And so, he unspooled his whispers with care,
Each one like a tendril uncurling in air.
Lotus, adrift in his mirror bound grace,
Spoke soft to the Rose of her luminous face.

“They sigh when you bloom, they stir when you pass
you were shaped for a throne made of glass.”
Lotus smiled, just enough, and let silence resume
A petal-soft whisper that thickened the gloom.
For envy walks sweetest when cloaked in jest,
And Rose, for the first time, felt thorns in her chest.

Rose blushed, not in bloom, but in tremble and thrill,
Half wanting the crown, half fearing the will.
Then Lotus, with voice like a ripple in shade,
Let rumors unfold in the glens he once stayed,
"She sways with a rhythm quite unknown,
And the petals around her feel overgrown".

To Tulip, he sighed, “She blooms but withdraws.”
To Daffodil, “Power moves soft when it gnaws.”
But Tulip just laughed, “She still smells like spring.
And Daffodil spoke, “She’s rooted past any sting".

Lotus then whispered to sunflower and marigold
"Rose's shine and warmth feels quite controlled".
And Marigold blinked, in a shimmer half-told,
“Her glow feels the same, but her laughter feels cold.”

He said three golden words— “You complete me.”
So, she broke herself in shards he could carry.
He mocked her degrees, her minds hard climb
So, she lit her past and called it sublime.
He did gently though, like falling snow
Each cut was kindness, each no a soft blow.

He wouldn't speak until she profusely apologized,
sorry for raising her voice, sorry for asking twice.
He preached: “True bonds need nothing new,”
So, she offered her all and received just dew.
He said, “Rule the home and my heart like a queen.”
So, she served in his palace, bowed to his routine.

He called her sensitive, but it was never emotion,
What exhausted her was the incessant erosion
Of trimming her identity, to suit his situation
Of muting her colors to match his narration.
He cloaked his criticism in the language of care,
And smothered doubt, like prayer in perfumed air.

He used "We are one" to erase his faults and mistakes
When she faltered, he spelled blame with surgical stakes.
"You’re overthinking,” he said with a sadistic grin.
Kept editing her memory, to frame her within.
Each truth she lived, he gently denied—
Until only his version survived inside.
People around her said- "u had a choice".
But she didn't ever get a chance to voice.

He didn't complete her but consumed her whole.
Just enough to leave her name carved in his soul.

I lived in a cage.
I loved it.
The bars were golden.
They were polished each day
by hands that said they loved me.
I never asked who locked the door.

I lived in a pond.
I loved it.
It was shallow,
but it mirrored what I wanted to believe.
I never asked for more.
The lily roots were enough.

I lived in a cocoon.
I loved it.
Silence wrapped me like a prophecy.
I believed wings were a myth,
and becoming was for someone else.
I folded in on purpose.

I lived in a bubble.
I loved it.
It shimmered with the truths I preferred.
No one could reach me.
No one asked me to leave.
It kept me hollow, but whole.

Now I am out,
The world is too wide,
I had made myself too small
to fit those shapes.

They call this freedom.
I carry it like grief.

It's not red, like they said.
It's white, green, pink, blue
And all other fascinating hues.
Not the grays I am used to.

I was told there is no air here,
Yet every breath is crisp and sheer
No masks, no tubes, no weight to bear.
Most importantly, nothing to fear.

I didn't need a suit or a flight,
Just a smile and a grip held tight.

On Mars,

Food overflows, in plates, pots and dustbins
Buildings rise, neither burned nor crumbling.
No kids with wounds from bullet strikes.
All body parts intact, not lost to war pikes.
The sky glitters even without missiles,
The dead are buried, not left in piles.
Huge cranes lift steel to kiss the sky,
Unlike ours, which lifted cries up high.
Here parents and friends grow old.
No blood-stained tents left to fold.


They said Mars holds no life.
What's this then? Afterlife?
I had heard a lot about Mars
Today I learnt Mars has no Wars.

In the quiet nook of a loving home,
Is my small world-
fenced by iron bars,
and a limited sky.
Protected from storms
and predator’s eye.
Fresh clean water,
steady sunflower seed supply.
Almost a picture-perfect life.
Yet, I often sigh.

I yearn for lush trees,
and open endless skies.
Where the sun shines bright
And the moon climbs high.
I long to join the chorus of dawn,
spread my wings and fly.
I want to build a nest
with mud, leaves and twigs dry
Teach my younglings
to soar by and by.

One day the door unlatched,
my stunted feathers gave a try.
I flapped and fluttered,
then bid my cell goodbye.
My tiny little throat
Gave out a joyous cry.

Now I had mountains, valleys,
And jungles to ply.
In this new beginning,
food was scarce,
The streams were dry.
No waterproof nest,
where I could lie.
Stars blinked down
with a silent sigh.
And I had to forgo,
my melodious lullaby.
For the constant fear
of the hunter’s pry.

New starts are challenges,
I won’t deny.
They test your spirit.
But also fortify.
They cast doubts,
Nevertheless, clarify.
So, crush the whispers of fear,
and learn to identify.
For new horizons bloom,
where limits die.

I sit on a throne of unfinished things,
wearing a crown of missed chances,
a robe of echoes and brittle stances,
stitched with the pull of quiet strings.

My mini palace is kept on my palm,
built from silent, paused goodbyes.
I spread my kingdom with quiet gaze,
ruled it with intent none could revise.

I am self-slaved by chosen remand,
My soldier thumb obeys each command
My courtier eyes chart where I land
Time kneels before my wordless stand.

I claimed the void they wouldn't dare
and named myself the nillionaire.

Mirror in the washroom, mirror in the hall,
who is the saddest, most tragic of all?
Me, me, me— our chant, our plea, our scroll.
We cry for heartbreak, curse what we recall,
mourn mood swings and childhood’s sprawl.
We share our feelings, raw and blatant,
talk as if we own sorrow’s patent.
An indulgent binge of trauma dumping
hailed as “growth,” with echoes thumping.

“Let down your hair,” the mirror said
"So, I may climb into your head."
We let the mirror live inside,
Fed it fears, we were meant to hide.
We center our every breath on “I,”
crown our pain and let it sanctify.
We kneel to our image like an altar
then robe our grief in saints for slaughter.

“The slipper fits,” the mirror lied
“So, dance until you feel alive.”
We twirl in dreams we can't escape
beneath a veil we cannot scrape.
The mirror smirks with every spin—
“Keep dancing. You’ve already let me in.”

"Just close your eyes,” the mirror sighed,
“The world will wait—just stay inside.”
And so, we did, in cushioned sleep,
clinging to the dreams we were fed,
And the world burned beyond our bed.

The mirror waits with breathless grace.
It doesn’t show. It holds our face.