I saw you first,
Like the Cuckoo perched on top of a
Dew-kissed branch
Adorned with tufts of green leaves,
Patiently waiting to gaze upon
The bright star that flew everyday
Over the warm young horizon,
Whilst the rest of the world
Danced along with
The brother of death.

But then I realized.
I realized you saw HER first
And felt like an exiled musician
Whose ears, after a very very long time,
Inhaled the soft notes of Mozart and Bach
and finally found bliss,
After those treacherous years in
Deafening Space.

You told me about HER
For the first time,
And I felt like the tides
Crashing upon the desolated shores,
Reaching out,
Reaching out to gently caress the shimmering rock
And to carry it along to an adventure in the mirror of the sky,
Only to find Out
That the sand would forever hold the rock,
And not the tide.
Not me.


“I’ll not catch the moon for you, my love,

And catch nor the the sun-
But I shall glide and drag on to Pluto
For it is inferior to none.

‘Why?’ you ask me.
‘Why that tiny, elusive, ever wandering speck?
It’s cold and dark and never so lumos,
Is our heart that morose?’

No it is not, my love.
It is not as burning as the sun that blazes every other soul near it,
Nor is the mass so close to all,
That mere mortals write ballads of
The insomniac man on the moon.

As the path of Pluto so spans, it is as wide around the ‘verse.
The path, not the same of others but sublime and invincible-
Like the spirit that knots our hearts together.

Not all see it…. but why should all see it if I know my eyes are only for you?

You and I, we’re mayhem-
That pound of the heart whenever we’re near…
But to the stranger’s eye-
We are humble and insignificant.

True it is, that Pluto is yet to be given a knight,
But isn’t that the beauty of the Aurum behind?

And that is why, my love, I shall glide and drag onto Pluto-
Cos’ for me the question remains, not of the diminutive lone-traveller,
But the biggest mystery of all…


I saw you for the last time,
Just as the innocence that ran out of us
Like a prisoner running away from the clutches of conviction.
The last time,
Like the sweet thoughts of a child
That inevitably,
Forever combusts
With raging time,
Only to never bring it back
Even if I tried.

And I tried.

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Sakthisree V
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