Humans are funny little beings; they fall.
Falling recklessly in and out of varying degrees of affection; they tell.
Telling each other half-truths and half-lies; they reveal.
Revealing their most closely guarded secrets at a slip of the tongue; they feel.
Feeling emotions unforeseen by their own cortical matter; they think.
Thinking about futures that may never even be theirs to live; they breathe.
Breathing the love that clouds the air and developing immunity; they write.
Writing vague poetry to soothe their noisy souls; they hope.
Hoping the universe really does have a plan for them; they journey.
Journeying through that amusing series of events they call a life; they live.
Living- really living through it all.

Come spring, she leaped across the grassy dune,
Beaming with sheer joy as she hummed a halcyon tune.
Her beauteous almond eyes- the biggest, the brightest.
A bonnie spotted doe in her warm, homely forest

Come summer, by her gushing little lake she played.
When upon a solitary, pensive buck her eyes she laid.
Eyes met across the smiling lake; too soon gazes parted.
While his eyes curiously lingered, hers wandered on ahead.

Come monsoon, he adored her eyes, her gilded coat, her bushy tail.
The passionate warmth in her eyes with affection made him frail.
Yet, she went on with her blissful life- devoid of any care.
Oblivious of the buck who always stopped to stare.

Come winter, by his side chattering happily she grazed.
Soon, his feelings faded; by almond eyes no longer crazed.
Like currents in the water, apart they drifted and drifted.
New lake. Nonchalant silence. No words were said.

Come fall, she found that he still leaped through her mind.
The emotion she once scoffed in her heart now enshrined.
Eyes met across the smiling lake; too soon gazes parted.
While her dull eyes wistfully lingered, his wandered on ahead.

(Part 1: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/738250/almond-eyes/)

Come spring, she leaped across the grassy dune.
In her ageing almond eyes, fresh wisdom strewn.
Unthought of now- he who had once been her all.
In a forbidden forest, a smiling lean buck stood tall.

Come summer, standing afar she did quietly spy;
Studying his ways from the curious corner of her eye-
How chilled he liked his water, how green his grass…
A polite little nod if ever he happened to pass.

Come monsoon, away she cast the lessons of the past.
Throughout their graze, on him her gaze.
Playful fights they feign; adorable moments in the rain.
She’d fallen tame; her clumsy hooves not to blame.

Come winter, cold truths in the icy winds blew her way.
Her lean, smiling buck wasn’t really hers per se.
He smiled much the same at myriad doe and antelope,
Yet, in her shivering heart flickered the scantiest of hope.

Come fall, she finally forsake her futile trail.
Turned her back with a swish of her bushy tail.
Beaming with sheer joy, she hummed a halcyon tune twice over.
For bucks would come and bucks would go, but the river’d go on forever.

Onto her creased palm, lime scented glue she poured
To mend the loose page on that book she'd borrowed.
As she spread the glue, a pleasant feeling of release.
For to piece broken things together brought her peace.

What of the glue that lingered on her palm, though?
Across the sides of her petite hand did overflow...
She beheld its yellow viscosity in an odd little trance.
From the faint aroma, a new line of thought did advance.

Maybe she could use it to stick a note in her dorm,
To remind her that in life, transience is the sole norm.
Or to fix a friendship once worthy of the bards,
That had silently shattered into a million shards.

Or perhaps even use it on the heart hiding within her,
So the poor old muscle could heal a little quicker...
She turned on the tap with a frustration so fierce,
And washed off the lime glue along with her tears.

A leaf swooped down from my overgrown mane
And embraced her lovely little frock-the hue of the rain.
Day after day she basked in my warmth, and I in hers.
The pages of a fairy tale flipped by tiny fingers.

A leaf swooped down from my plentiful mane
And embraced her long lustrous locks in vain.
As they danced, she blushed; the wind began to hum.
Prettier than my flowers young love did blossom.

A leaf swooped down from my sparse mane
And embraced their picnic spread- artistically lain.
With adoration-filled eyes, she beamed at her kin.
Twin infants danced around me; laughter and din.

No leaves prevailed on my naked frame.
Summer, spring, fall- were all now the same.
Branches that once swayed and loved her like their own,
Lay lifelessly still as they beheld her lonely gravestone.

On a derelict island lived a solitary youth,
A desolate prisoner of his own- the unfathomable truth.
Enclosed by the fence which his own hands had built.
All day he lay, still as a rock, eyes fixed on the silt.

From his enclosure, the same sorry shells he would collect everyday.
And when he put them together, they never failed to look the same way.
The job he once loved was now monotonous and mundane,
No longer did people want to see his shells- so ordinary and plain.

One warm day, a shell so unlike the others his fence did hit,
Fascinated, he took down a piece of his fence with a new-found grit,
Joyously, he discovered a whole wide world of many a beauteous shell,
Vivacity enveloped him and godspeed, he took down the rest of his fence as well.

But the island, in reality, was his isolated mind,
The fence, the enclosure for his mind, around the ‘island’ was aligned.
The shells stood for thoughts, words and the inspiration he could attain.
As the writer opened up his mind, he fell in love with words again.

At first she loved me with wondrous pride,
Night after night, a happy constant by her side.
Hand-written stories narrated solely to me,
For only I appreciated her special 'vocabulary'.

In a couple of years, she gouged out my right eye.
As she pulled out my left arm, I masked a sigh.
A laborious poker face; by her, I was smitten.
And unlike the others, at least I wasn't forgotten.

At the age of three, she made loneliness my mistress.
Stowed me away; locked me alone with my distress.
The darkness of the room surpassed by my own.
Yet my unrequited adoration set firmly in stone.

Twenty five years later, she found her old teddy bear.
'He was always my favourite. Treat him with care.'
'But mommy, he has no eyes or hands...' she said, sans guile.
In the blink of an eye, she spied a sad, crippled smile.

Chalance is the quiver in your vivacious voice as you tell them you're fine.
The trepid tear you battle as you proclaim that you don't care anymore.
The leering lump in your throat as you scream indifference from the rooftops.
The murky melancholy you mask with the widest of smiles,
The sinful scars that lurk beneath your flawless ensemble.
The six strategic seconds you pause before you tell the universe you're nonchalant
The word chalant is only as non-existent as your nonchalance.

She's a clumsy little human.
Broken beakers, test tubes,
Plates, glassware, door handles,
The antlers of that showpiece deer,
Her bed, her favourite pencil.

Through seventeen (and a half) years of clumsiness
The universe, it's always whispered to her
"However careful you might try to be
Sometimes things, they'll fall out of your clumsy hands
Never on purpose, no satisfactory reason
Leaving you with melancholy ruins.

Sometimes things, they can be fixed
With a little glue and a lot of patience
So fix them before they're lost and
Be ever more careful thereon.
But sometimes things, they can't be fixed
Not with glue nor with patience
And broken they will forever be
So sweep up the pieces gently and
Cast them away sans regret."

She's a clumsy little human.
Broken beakers, test tubes,
Plates, glassware, door handles,
The antlers of that showpiece deer,
Her bed, her favourite pencil,
Trust, hearts and friendships.

Our pretty white house; the grand grey gates stood proud,
The blood-red roses, the lilac petunias; myriad flora- every hue, every kind.
The endearing blue sky, many a vagabond white cloud,
The colors of my youth lived on, embossed in my mind…

The joyous peals of laughter in the aureate beach, as tides swept by,
Ma, her orange dress bright, tracing the path of each bubbly wave,
Mauve, ochre and yellow merged, embellishing the canvas of the transforming sky,
Of those days-vivid red love, countless memoirs- I will ever rave.

My bonny bride in her lovely white dress; exuberant, free as a bird,
The dash of pink that adorned her cheeks when “I do,” she said,
The rage, the lividity- a sinister crimson; she had left without a word,
The blues we’d painfully endured, as Ma lay on her death bed…

The aged white house-home no more, now lay brown and sore,
No more of the red roses, lilac petunias- life of any kind,
The rusted brown gates-eternally shut, stood with pride no more,
The colors of my youth fading- embossed only in my mind…

The death of a mother, the departure of a father
A new family sans laughter-not a murmur.
Her ‘favourite’ food, polite dinner conversation.
Plunged into an ocean of fake likes.

Crushed dreams; words unsaid she kept,
Feelings and thoughts under a rug of misery swept.
Almond eyes so deep- they drowned seas.
Swimming in an ocean of fake likes.

Quiet prayers and hopes, tears never set free.
A mother’s gentle kiss now a distant memory.
‘It’s just the way I like it, Miss Lily.’ Cue polite smile.
Floating in an ocean of fake likes.

Head held a little too high, a tired smile on her face.
Pretty as a picture, not a hair out of place.
A facade so strongly rehearsed, yet so weak.
Drowning in an ocean of fake likes.

The candle flames, oh how they taunted.
Stubborn obstacles to her familiar darkness.
Mockingly swaying with the breeze,
Burning through her sanity; singeing her happiness.

As she toyed with the ashes with her slender fingers,
She stared at the flames till her wide eyes were blinded
Despite the despise she felt toward their existence,
Secretly, she liked their warmth.

In the inferno blazed painful memories,
There was a thin line between warmth and searing heat.
While her lips smiled, her eyes wept.
Never did he look into her eyes; never need he know.

She tried to put them out- a final weak attempt,
Oh how the flames taunted, how they jeered.
Watching them dance through the darkness of the night.
She knew she had to first extinguish herself.

Every book has a last page, every song a last verse to sing.
Every sentence its full stop, every beginning its ending.
Every existence will one day cease to be,
In the inevitability of death, there is unity.

'Death is simply a beginning,' confidently some state.
'In death, there is nothingness,' others iterate.
But the lock of death in the living world has no key.
In the ignorance of death, there is unity.

In the hearts of some resides unwavering misery.
Others march on, donning costumes of pseudo-normalcy.
The actuality of their loss, still others refuse to see.
In the incoherence of death, there is unity.

Cinema, literature, poetry have ostensibly tried to explain,
With the knowledge directors, littérateurs, poets feign.
No living soul can grasp its intense incongruity,
In the incomprehensibility of  death, there is unity

Her bright brown eyes on the luminous Sun rested.
The mere prospect of a new day entailed excitement.
Up and down she jumped in pure juvenile mirth
This four year old was in love with the Universe.

'One day I'll be seventeen,' her colourful mind exclaimed.
'I'll be big and beautiful and grown up!'
The thought of the future made her eyes sparkle
The joy in those brown pools was untouchable.

Her sleep-deprived brown eyes on the luminous Sun rest.
The mere prospect of a new day makes her groan.
Up and down she jumps in pure frustration.
This seventeen year old is in war with the universe

'Never again will I be four,' her grey mind states.
She feels small and unattractive and worn down.
The thought of the future makes her eyes sparkle.
The teary fear in those brown pools is untouchable.

She's the twilight sea.
Waves inch close just to flee far
Slip right through your hands...

I still see the boy in the baggy trousers playing in the sand,
With a rubber ball in one hand, and in the other my tiny hand.
‘Hold hands so that you don’t lose each other,’ Mum screams from the gate.
The four-toothed grin of my favourite playmate.

I still see the boy with the ‘lucky’ green wrist band,
Who crossed the street with me on the first day of school- hand in hand.
And tugged at my neat pigtails from the bench behind me,
The mischievous smile of a schoolboy- so carefree.

I still see the boy with the bow tie, standing six feet tall,
Who held my hand as we made our way across the resplendent hall.
We danced and swayed till the clock declared it time to part,
The dreamy, flirtatious smile of a high school sweetheart.

Now, I see the man in the turquoise suit so grand,
As man and wife they leave the church; he gently holds her hand.
‘…hold hands so that you don’t lose each other,’
The desolate smile of a helpless narrator.

Soothing soothing melody, soul-embracing lyrics
There was nothing her dimpled smile couldn't fix.
Her thoughts were joyous rainbows, her sorrows balloons
With every verse they burst and fell into ruins.

His smiling eyes stared only into hers,
In her head she could hear the delightful verse.
Their walks infinite, their talks ceaseless.
Like the rhythm of her melody- a pleasant weakness.

Curiosity, confession, chaos.
Silence in her mind and silence outside it.
Misconceptions, melancholy, mistaken.
She paid for her actions in tears.

Black balloons in the black sky surged one by one,
Her thoughts were rain in a sky sans sun.
Her departed dimpled smile nothing could ever fix,
Painful painful melody and emotionally deafening lyrics.

She's wicked winter, one time I was told.
They get the chills from her airs; so cold.
Their deep despise they never did disguise...
Alas, 'tis only warmth that melts frosty ice.

'Twas weighing down her petite frame; rendering her weak.
Tugged at her very being; left her anguished and meek
'Out of sight, out of mind,' her rationale whispers everyday.
What happens, though, when she just can't look away?

She shields her face; turns her head in advance.
Ruthlessly judging herself, as she steals a discreet glance
As a mother warns her child, so her rationale intervened.
Yet, by the forbidden always tempted was the little fiend.

Her weak smile they see- no visible scars will they find.
Of the ever-raging battle; heart against mind.
Her feelings tore her open; the wrappings of a Christmas present
An empty box, laden only with pain and disappointment.

A closely guarded secret- it was hers and hers alone.
She sang herself to sleep, willed her heart to turn to stone.
She chose her words carefully lest the world should know.
Her long tresses moist from the tears on her pillow.

"Who may you be?" words laced with leer.
'I'm a baby tomato; it's my first day here.'
"Why are you here?" condescension is key.
'I don't quite know; existence was ****** upon me.'
"And where are you headed, puny one?"
'I'm going to make my way towards the Sun.'
"What, then, if thou weres't to burn?"
'I'd stand tall; not so much as turn.'
"With this arrogance, you shall not survive.
Be like the others and venture not to strive."
The impressionable little tomato did blush, red-hued.
Seeds of ambition crushed even before they were strew'd.
"And who may you be..." the voice moves on.
A familiar epilogue- society had won.

One day, on the gilded coast with the waves I’ll run.
And hug you the way they embrace the golden shore.
One day with tear-filled eyes, I’ll watch the setting sun,
The way I looked on sadly when you could stay no more.

One day, a romance novel I shall entirely decipher,
The way I read you and your myriad faces…
One day, I’ll paint a colourful, pretty picture,
The way you patiently painted my life’s empty canvas.

One day, I’ll run like the wind, sans destination
The way you make my heart race as you run through my mind.
One day, I’ll hum a tune as I behold the rising sun.
Though it will never be as melodious as your laugh- one of a kind.

One day on my lips, a smile will once again be,
Like the one that reached your dimples when we walked on our own.
One day, I’ll wake up and swim in an ice-cold sea,
To experience the coldness you feel under your gravestone.

And the skies, they tried to cheer her up; said,
'For every tear you shed, we'll shed a hundred.
And if your loud heartbeat is tearing you asunder,
Just close your eyes and lend a ear to the thunder.'

'When I come of age, I shall soar astray,'
With wings, there could be no other way.
'I shall close my eyes; my wings spread,'
'To build my nest away from my home,' she said.

When in the stead of hands, wings would emerge
Her fantasy and reality would seamlessly merge.
Oh how she longed to see the world,
To never turn back; goodbyes unfurled.

When she finally did come of age,
She could hardly hold back tears of rage
With longing the new wings of others she spied,
As they flew far away she stared, wide eyed.

'I have come of age, and I must stay.'
Without wings, there could be no other way.
'I shall close my eyes; my hands spread,'
'To build my nest within my home,' she said.

The first line iced with hope; straight from the heart.
Melody striving to impress; the sound of a fresh start,
The world would hear the latent pain- only they listened closely.
And maybe in those happy lyrics, they would see the irony.

No, never with their minds; they only listened with their ears.
Only heard her 'happy' melody; never her unspoken fears.
Sung too many times, her chorus had lost its charm.
'Encore. Encore. It can't possibly do you any harm.'

The winds yelled cruelly, the clouds roared with fury and might.
Trials and tribulations; the universe always ready to pick a fight.
There was no exit from this world- this battlefield of horror,
Where soldiers trudged unarmed, yet unscathed never.

Nostalgia struck; breaking through her unfortified mind.
The prettiest of smiles on her lips; it was time to rewind.
There was no audience; not a soul around to stare.
Singing on the road sans inhibition, she had not a care.

With a frustrated sigh, she decided to wash her face,

The soap could seep through her flawed skin.
It could carry away with it the filth and the dirt that had gathered on her face through the day.
The gushing water and the bubbly soap could do wonders, but

Could the soap seep through her flawed mindset?
Could it carry away with it the desolation and the loneliness that had gathered in her heart through the day?
Her gushing passion and her bubbly persona could do wonders, but

She pulled her hair back with a frustrated sigh, and decided to wash her face.

Twilight. Clear skies. The merry Moon brightened.
Past a million faceless entities, he clumsily hastened.
Concerned glances- he emanated an incomprehensible sorrow.
Yet his sad eyes met none; he walked on-his head hanging low.

Her endearing smile- from one dimple to the other it had playfully run,
The dreamy sparkle in her enchanting eyes as she had spoken, sans inhibition.
The embarrassed blush that would succeed her laugh- untamed and resonating.
Which to his ears was a symphony of the finest notes, of the richest tuning.

In the days close to curtain-fall, ceased had her symphony’s pleasant sound.
The sparkle cruelly fled her eyes, as her golden locks embraced the ground.
How he had yearned for the malevolent illness to leave and return their bliss.
But he could only remain spectator as dreary Death proceeded to make her His…

Armed with tears, the pretty lilies on the prettier Lily’s gravestone laid he,
In the eerie silence, the symphony in his mind his sole solace would be.
As his tears hit the soil, she looked down and sobbed without respite.
The melancholy Moon dulled. Overcast skies. Night.

The peals of laughter, the smiles
The atmosphere was one of joy and tranquility
Shivers ran up his spine, it disgusted him,
The time had come, the end was near…

The burning desire to evoke pain,
The grave thirst to summon tears.
The murderer’s instinct to ****,
The time had come, the end was near…

As the unnoticed silhouette crept by,
Irrevocable, irredeemable, insolent.
The assailant’s eyes filled with ardent desire,
The time had come, the end was near…

The screams, the pain, the sorrow,
The thirst which only tears and blood could quench,
His sole want-terror, his sole weapon-death,
The time had come, the end was here.

In a bustling bus lingered a vacuous seat.
'She's impure,' they proclaimed; indiscreet.
The poor woman wept- shedding tear after tear.
'Don't sit next to her,' they warned with a sneer.

The wide-eyed girl looked on in curious worry,
As the fierce conductor tried to make the woman scurry.
The amused passengers laughed on encouragingly
As he tugged at her bag, her hand, even her dignity.

Spurned by the hospital; in society she had no place
For she had not the money to be referred to as a 'case'.
Her sole possessions- her disease and her fright.
The doctorless patient drowned in her ceaseless plight.

Melancholia stared deep into the girl's wide eyes.
They welled with desolation as she heard the cries.
Her dream of being a doctor would soon come true,
But oh doctorless patient, what will become of you?

The lonely innkeeper sat by the solitary window...
Hazel eyes on the sea, she recalled her every woe.
The bright-eyed children of #201 toward her desk came.
‘Tell us a story of the sea!’ they begged the lonely dame.

Within moments, the story formed on the innkeeper’s lips,
‘On a wide dock, there once were two ships.
The first was huge and beautiful, the second, plain and pale.
Despite this, as one, the two ships set sail.

At the very beginning, the strong wind was a perfect guide,
The two ships, in symphony, sailed side by side.
Through the smooth sail, they stuck together like man and wife,
Like they were built to be eternal companions in the sea of life.

Then came tumult, and everything was a blur.
The storm took over the first ship like a puppet-master.
To a deserted land the first ship was sent,
With an adoration so bizarre, in its pursuit the second ship went.

Desolate was the land; the wind was stubborn,
Two whole days there were spent, and events took a sorry turn.
In the hull of the second ship now lay a gaping dent,
And just then, a powerful wind from the skies was sent.

The second ship, a *******, could only watch with pain,
As the silhouette of the first ship began to wane.
On the lonely land remained the helpless ship,
Now in ruins, happiness spiraled out of its grip.’

‘Did the second ship live happily ever after?’ asked the bright-eyed lad,
The lonely innkeeper retorted with a smile so sad.
A sea could be drowned in her excessively deep pain,
Perhaps it was time for the crippled innkeeper to set sail again.

'Grandmama, who is he?' the pretty, wide-eyed lass asked.
A grimace set on his lips; in his wrinkles stories were masked.
‘My child, look closely- it is your grand Grandpapa you behold.’
As Grandmama studied the painting, no longer did she look old.

'Tell me more, Grandmama!' A curious young lass was she.
‘Well darling child, here’s a tale- pray listen carefully.
When I was your age, young girls were made to clean and cook.
I was not sent to school, and never had I laid eyes on a book.

My father was a teacher, though he never did teach me,
One day during class, I was sent to serve him his evening tea.
He was father’s star pupil; the fateful month was May.
Our eyes met for the first time, and never could I look away…

The next day after class, together we snuck off gleefully,
Talking excitedly, hand in hand, we hopped from tree to tree.
Over two months, he presented me with a gift I really did need,
Armed with passion, he taught me how to write and read.

"…your daughter like a good Hindu girl must behave, Sir"
Villagers had too many eyes and ears; the rest was all a blur.
For his star pupil, Father’s classes no longer had room.
I was kept locked; the family hastily searched for a bridegroom.

The man they found was ugly, disrespectful, and arrogant,
Your Grandpapa found out; through my window a note he sent.
“Run away with me, my pearl. Life without you is lifeless”
That note was a bugle- it awoke me from my distress, oh yes…

We got married in a small temple and ran far, far away,
For three lovely years, there was not a melancholy day.
Alas my cruel father was not one to admit defeat, and so
Grandpapa was gone; baby in my arms, I was a helpless widow.'

'Grandmama, don't cry! Grandpapa is watching from above.'
‘Child, heed my advice: never must you be afraid to fall in love.’
The young girl studied the painting again- staring quite a while.
She could swear Grandpapa’s lips were now curled into a smile.

Chirruping birds lay in wait; as we passed, the flowers flushed,
Frivolously through the woods we ran- heads occasionally kissed by the dew,
In my petite hand, a rose red of hue, the fountains of love loudly gushed.
As Spring cast her spell, nothing would change, I knew.

The cruel scorching sun, the scathing hot winds a cruel blow delivered,
Gravely, she shook her head, reassuring words the Doctor sought.
A pearl of sweat adorned his brow- he feared.
As Summer dawned, nothing would change, I thought.

The bitterly cold flakes of snow, the surging sinister cold,
His beautiful eyes, shut, were shielded while I wept and moped.
The blink of an eye; the reassuring smile he attempted spoke of a heart of gold,
As Winter imposed, nothing would change I hoped.

The leaves tearfully from the naked trees parted,
A surrendering smile, my name on his lips grew,
The final breath, our bond severed- his bed away was carted.
As Fall struck, everything would change, I knew.

At first there were two human beings,
Now there's one human, hardly being...

A tiny little flame births a regal forest fire,
The remotest nooks of her mind now a grand pyre.
Her very being set ablaze with an inspiration so great,
She grabs a pencil before the sly flames can attenuate.

Each word a drop; from her hand runs a river thence,
Fills the parchment before her; a happy turbulence.
Only water can quench fire, the stanzas doth flow.
Untamed ripples dancing as her eyes begin to glow.

Before she knows it, she's the most unyielding General.
Her army of sixteen before her merciless wrath grovel.
Soldier out, soldier in; every line proportionate.
This wordy patriot did it with rhyme and reason, yet.

And now, at yet another christening she's a Father.
An air of certitude prevails, as she sprinkles holy water.
Content with her myriad roles, she smiles exhaustedly,
"Oh, you write poems?" Not at all; she lives poetry.

Look at you now, tiny speck, falling from the sky.
Tardily as ever, with not so much as a worldly tie.
Showy, sparkly stardust you can never aspire to be.
Yet, there is a certain anomaly to your normalcy.

Oh speck of dust, you know naught where you truly belong.
In the strong arms of the wind, mindlessly floating along.
At times you may coalesce with the specks in your way,
But then again, feel the fleeting need to flee far astray

And now the cold, cold wind is letting you go.
You seem to be spiralling- sinking ever so low.
Parting with everything you've ever known, I trust?
Yet you can't have ties when you're a speck of dust.

Poor lost speck, as they clean you away, you groan.
But you can only be lost if a home you've ever known.
Worry not, for while they may sweep you off in a gust,
Can you ever really destroy dust?