He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, gently rubbing her arm. Despite the heaviness in her stomach, it fluttered at the feeling of her body pressed against his. She sunk into the warmth of his side, appreciative of the simple gesture. His touch made the room warmer somehow, her future within its walls seeming a little less bleak.
In your eyes I see home. In your soul there is the kind of passion that brings solace to my fire, enough to bring out my earthen nature and calm. Your arms become my cocoon, a place to heal my soul. For living as a phoenix requires refuge, especially after those times I must become flame in the defence of the defenceless, a light in the darkness, before again returning to ashes. Has nobody ever wondered how a phoenix must feel or what they may need? So, lover, I could live infinite lifetimes and desire you. I would live infinite mortal lives to save you, to bring you home. In all honesty, I'm not sure who is saving who in this scenario, but from what this universe has shown me, it's almost certainly a bit of both. I choose you because I need someone who will hold on to my soul no matter what happens, that will trust me to do the same for them. And in this entire crazy world the only one the universe trusts me into the care of is you. That much I'm clear on. That makes you unique. That makes you special. It also makes you my twin soul, my companion by divine design. So this fire of mine that burns all others, will touch you as fine silk, as the spark of a heaven-spun love. It will ignite you within when nothing else can. Even if you are ice or stone, it will reach you and save you. So, weave your fingers into mine and let the future begin.
The seashore is order and chaos, the land and sea meeting one another as they please, yet still obeying gravity to perfection, a straight line at zero - it's all a matter of perspective.
Do we think “sick” is good? Why would that be? Was the word causing “acidic” brain chemistry? Is that why youth culture “neutralised” it by bringing it a positive definition too? Because that is genius.
Blind from birth, the spring was all about the sounds, the tastes and the rising air temperature for Mila. With keen awareness of the frigidity of winter rain, she knew before her keen sighted friends when the winter season was in transition. She felt the breeze kiss her more warmly and let her hands explore the overhanging branches of neighbourhood trees to find the swelling buds- buds that would soon crack open to release the soft papery leaves within.The myriad of verdant hues from the grass to the leaves above were lost to her; but their gentle fragrance never was. She would take a new lush blade or leaf and rub it between her fingers, releasing its perfume. She knew the flowers of her neighbourhood by their scents, either that which they released to the damp air or by crushing a petal to release the aromatic sap. She knew the call of each bird species and marked the progress of the season with their song.
The trousers had greeted a thousand suns already and still had so many more left in them, that's what happens when you take the time to make things well. They last.
The gold was the shade of bleached buttercups.
The words I compose come from my heart. My stories define who I am and my poems tell of how I feel. My pencil is my paint brush and this blank page is my canvas; when I start painting it is a masterpiece because it holds my ambitions, my passions and my dreams.
Light shone through the wintry branches, shadowy arms stretching across the ancient ruins. What was left stood in spite of itself, defying gravity in its precarious way. Yet, this place, kept secret by the trees, was safe. It had avoided modern man's destructive touch and so had become a sanctuary for the animals.
My honesty is not a thing of glass, to shatter upon a floor if dropped, but a fine cup that lasts the ages no matter the weather. If you choose to drink from this cup it may be your holy grail, a place to call home, a fortress in times of trouble - yet as with any road to any fine place, it can only be travelled by the brave of heart.
There is more to every story,
Or so I have heard them saying.
I always gaze into the infinity of the sky,
Observing the sky change its hues at different times of the day,
Seeking answers to a particular paradoxical question -
What about them?
I think in a state of haze.
Are they really happy?
Maybe we are misunderstanding everything;
Maybe they are in the wrong places;
Maybe, they want their fates to change.
Maybe, all that we perceive is them deceiving us.
Maybe, out there is an enigma
Full of anomalies and conundrums -
An obscure love story,
of Apollo and Selene.
Maybe they are in love
But can’t make it past their differences;
Maybe they are lost,
And have strayed from the path
That leads them to each other.
Maybe the dusk and dawn
are their surreal infinities;
Maybe they set and rise,
not for the world,
but for each other.
Maybe the stars glittering,
in the oblivion of the dark night,
are the tears that Selene sheds.
Maybe, Apollo makes the sun burn,
in his jealous rage,
since everyone but him can admire her grandeur.
Maybe the eclipse is the time when
One’s love overpowers the other’s
To create an amalgam of untold stories,
None of us will ever hear.
Maybe those spots on the moon are the impressions
Apollo’s lonely heart has suffered.
Maybe when the thunder sound fulminates
In the foggy, clouded sky,
It is Selene crying to the heavens, mourning in agony.
When the sun gleams through the canopies,
We rejoice, Placing it adjacent to many heavenly pleasures.
But maybe, above there, past the clouds
the two just hurt inside.
Maybe they are grieving,
Mourning wordlessly,
Alone in the wilderness of their kingdoms,
Unnerved at the thought
of how long it would take for everything to fall into place.
‘Romeo and Juliet’ was a classic literature love,
But this is so much more -
Love that is pure and heavenly;
Love that is silent,
Yet speaks out so loud and clear.
Love, not the whole world could witness.
Someone once told me I am strong. Sometimes, I really do think that I am. But on days like today, when my feelings overwhelm me, the word "strong" becomes insignificant, to the varying waves of emotion that engulf me. Today, I got lost in the tide and I caved, swept away by my own fears.
I am only human.
Fortunately, I am not defined by my moments of weakness and fear, but by the days when I muster the strength to rise above the tide. Then and only then, I consider myself to be... strong