The Girl in the Mirror is Stronger than I
For some part of life,
don’t some of us feel akin
to the bright burning flame
harshly blown-off, of the candlestick
when unneeded
‘What beauty remains of the candle
once the flame be-gone? did one wonder
while shunning it out.
My spirit,
my soul,
my fire,
my gold,
don’t die out. Not yet.
We’ve got a long way to go,
is what I told myself
when down in the low.
To which the fragile pulsating mind within
a stone-walled conscience spoke stern,
‘Know that I know, what you don’t know
about Destiny.
For destiny is stronger than a woman’s misery.
Destiny is louder than the loudest cry, a woman
has ever cried.’
I now look into the mirror rarer than usual
but when I do, I remember to ask
and might I remind,
hasn’t this been what we’ve always asked,
to the mirror on the wall,
“Dear mirror, on the wall
‘Should I be fair or a fright
And why should I be fair, in every unfair fight?”
For each ounce of our worth, we’re made to prove
every bit of our striking spell, is the price
we’ve been made to pay.
Obliged, now we need be to none
so may the world spare its soup to our soul,
whilst we re-build.
Poignance
Fingers flirt with the keys
black and white, short and long.
I do not know to instill in them the discipline,
probably, real pianists would understand.
The March of the Elves
remains the only sheet of music
I recognize well enough
to want to attempt and play numerous times.
Crescendos uplift the mind, decrescendos
ground it into a gentle stillness.
A stillness, deep still waters alone may know
to make gentle and put to unconscious rest,
a most brutal fall.
Dad, I fell.
Sleep, dear soul
to the first song taught
by the first man
of a mentally turbulent life.
At the end of every lesson
‘Very good,’ he’d say, an untenable pride
It did not get any further than that, I grieve.
I flirt with the keys as they bring me back memories
of a nervous little girl sitting at the piano.
Father next to her teaching
some of the very first lessons.
I seem to now and then try,
not to re-live.
Elude
I harboured in me, a deep desire
to fall and be lost forever,
in the warmest-most tight embrace
only a much-devoted lover can offer.
Heal my exhaustion please.
Help me trust, trust again.
Make me want to look into your tender eyes
without having to shy away too soon
for the fear of being aroused.
And how does arousal feel, I wonder
because I’ve been numb like a stone, far too long,
to want to be made love to anymore.
Just let me be.
I now sit in the breeze, the old banyan offered
most evenings, imagining images of
a girl, weary from being shy
and a handsome young fawn prancing around
in circles,
to the tune of their mute minds.
She leaves sudden. It watches bewildered.
Said not so little
as a goodbye. How could I?
I never had the courage
to pursue any kind of worthy bond.
Well, how does it end? I’d doubt
before it could even begin.
How does it end for the undeserving?
Why do some of us feel,
undeserving.
And how did we know,
which ones were worthy.
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