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The paradise of love, in its adorn bliss,
In its decor of grandeur, remains through the day.
These cherry tree flowers have bloomed, charmed and irresistible—
Their distinguishing dress so beautifully displayed.
The cherries adorn themselves in fitting attire,
Along with the gentle autumn breezes,
Which yield to winter's cold embrace.
I wore my blue button down
layered with a white sweater
Yet the cold glued over me
like the ghost of an old lover
holding the woollen armour
There's no cadence
in morning rush hours—
as anger burst like atomic bombs
and words splattered
like spilt tea on a white sheet;
What of the child,
so pure and young,
the family's breadwinner,
whose old mother, ever vigilant
listens for his return.
This cruel maniac has crept in our town,
Wreaking havoc from the corners of our street
To the utmost glorious sanatorium of our time;
Young leaves littered our street on borrowed time,
As they sniffed plume of sacrilege powdery mildew.
Who will be vigilant to console the Inconsolable?
As precious soul shimmers in this crazy hallucination—
Our homes have become a mournful dwelling sanctuary.
The evening air is quiet,
a silence that is warm, not empty.
I sit beside Papa,
the glow of the TV flickering across his face—
an old Bollywood movie, familiar, soft.
We do not talk much,
but we do not need to.
Some silences are not hollow;
they settle, like an old song—
comforting, known.
My sister is winging a sharp eyeliner
She paces frantically back and forth in between —
Brushing her hair, caressing and ironing the black floral wrap dress
The one with the little white peonies engraved on, that she loves so much
She tells me she’s not to put on a lot of blush
Upon enquiring, she says her fiancé doesn’t like it—though she does.