Love

From the vanilla-essenced sky

A little bird dropped by

With feathers white as dusted ivory

And blue crystallized eyes

That mirrored a strange human query

Then a delicate wing it curled

Revealing a scarlet wound of blood

I picked the gift from God

In the form of the little dove

And seeing the novelty of its colour

I lovingly named it Love

His advice was to take Love's care

But not to hold it tight

As clasped in palms, Love might die

Listening to Him, I held it light

Forgetting the fact, that Love could fly...

THE URBAN MUSE

(Just when i started thinking my Muse has abandoned me and was about to delete my blog, I realized, I'm my own Muse,my own inspiration my own reader, my own critic... this one is for the Muse(Aurora), the other side of Illyriana.

She writes a haiku in place of a sonnet

Muslin scarf substitutes for her linen bonnet

Streaks of chestnut, hazel and gold

Adorn her curls in every fold

In meetings or kitchen she plays the boss

Those men, without her, are certainly at loss

Prufrock, Potter and some chosen few

Awaits her blogs in a crowded queue

They worship her as she holds their gaze

Her God-like face put them in daze

Cleopatra, Winslet and many like them

Seeks her style on how to dress

In wicked catfights or crazy rat race

She plays her strokes with urban grace

To all copycats, she knows how to sue

So read her poems but create something new

The Wall

Liquid iron trickled down her neck

Leaving a scar of smoky red

But neither blood nor her tears

Could drown the ecstasy of shared pain

He had likely suffered once

The wall collapsed in no time

Heat was not needed to melt it down

The snug feeling of togetherness helped

To let her self-imprisoned soul

Soar up to his sky

But hands felt something cold again

The rusted iron wall stood tall

Warmth replaced by blinding rays

The thud assured the soul's fall

Wake up little soul, wake up

It was just a dream

You are still alive and free

To move within your walled territory

Broken Mirror

The moonbeams caused her blisters that night

Specks of blood shining in its flaming light

The rain was sultry, sulphuric, impure

It burnt her face that the mirror couldn’t endure

Illyria... where i live

Stillness of the warm summer air

Smoky webs ready to ensnare

Spots of venom on a porcelain mask

Morning at Illyria feels like dusk