My heart wavers often times
but it beats with solemn pride.
Mind churns melodious chimes
for thoughts have nowhere to hide.
As fate rolls its cyclic dice
emotions flip and unlock.
To know the wise from the vice-
the soul sounds intuitive knocks.
Let the life-cards play their tricks.
I listen and read my ticks.
With all my will I desire
but lack the might of passion.
I burn with the thirst of fire
but know not love from fashion.
For a false image I crave
which blurs with passage of time.
Where as fate embrace the brave,
and pursue the pure divine.
Desire is ephemeral.
But passion is eternal.
Bow is moulded by the soul.
Its mighty strings tensed to roar.
Wood is curved and battle-rolled,
and would twang to bow or soar.
Arrow piloted by mind
headed to distant armours.
But its steel-eyes, feathered hind
might trail a path amorous.
A bowyer prides in his craft.
A fletcher juggles his shafts.
The scent of petrichor permeated.
The land readied for the pearls from the skies.
The muse of the drenched souls long awaited-
poured its heart out with melodious sighs.
Some souls danced in this shower of blessings.
Some watched it splatter on their window panes.
And the tall trees spread their wide leafy wings.
Cats and dogs chased in the slippery lanes.
The birds gaped for here fell their wonder drops.
The streams burbled with a sparkling vigour.
The valleys greened around the mountain tops,
and the echoes rolled with a new swagger.
Small paper boats swirled around in puddles.
And the sweet drizzle lulled us with cuddles.
And the vineyard buzzes with dark red grapes.
My mind and the soul exchange lustful gapes.
Here comes their crush - vintner the grape crusher.
And the velvety fruit juicy form drapes.
Play me on a violin
or strum me on a guitar.
Pluck me on a mandolin
or buzz me on a sitar.
Lean on me to dry your drops,
tie me to a kite to soar.
Wrap me around a sweet top,
shake me for the bells to roar.
Pull me to call in favours
or detach me and savour.
You cannot digest what speaks the mirror,
and feverishly search to mend the damage.
You blame it for it reflects your errors,
and portrays not your new made-up image.
So you snap, click and edit your photo-
colours to present a different picture.
Camouflaged with layers from head to toe,
hiding the soul but flashing the texture.
You caption this frame to further enhance,
peppered with a sweet voice to go along.
In hope to upraise the societal stance
but unaware where you truly belong.
But soon this drama and dice go backstage-
you call the mirror for a pure image.
