In the twilight of her heart, she stands,
A fragile reed swaying between storms,
One born of the tender ache of love,
The other, a tempest of bruised whispers and broken vows.
Loves her blossom though not free of thorns,
In need of sunlight, yet shadowed somehow,
She cradles it in the soft folds of her will,
Shielding at times and and at times failing at her own peril.
While, the roots of her love entwine,
Between the blossom and the tree,
A fortress built of dreams; sometimes crumbles,
and she’s forever picking the ruins, hoping to rebuild.
Her own dreams, flicker of a distant flame,
Fanned by the winds of duty and desire,
They dance on the edge of her consciousness,
Never extinguished, but often dimmed.
She is the keeper of a delicate balance,
between the wrong and the right,
A tightrope walker into the dark night,
With a faulty safety net and no applause,
only silence,
Living on the verge of ecstasy and despair
And getting recharged with every sliver of hope and all that’s fair.
