Letter From Secret Santa

"
Dear Soft Spirit,

You don't know me
I don't know you either
But how much do we know about anyone
At all ?
One spends years and years inside their own skin
And still wakes up surprised, on a pleasant morning
A new flower has blossomed
In the garden of their soul
Flourishes for a day,
Before it decays along with the sunset
You wanted to fix the world,
But dear child, the world isn't broken
Some of us think that it doesn't even twirl
So let us say that it is already fixed
We are mere instruments
With thoughts, and roller coasters of emotions
Some flesh and bones, dreams and
Disappointments
Too many rose beds of our own
To tend
That we may not have the time to lend a helping hand
Nurturing vitality in someone else's
I pray, as I look at all these flowers in yours
That you never have to fix your broken heart
In this life.


P.S : Bananas are boss fruits, how dare you?

"

Claire de Lune II

How small we are,
Disarmingly artless
These pavements look too neat
As I walk
We've come a long way
I crush the fallen leaves beneath my feet
As if they were the last of the hurdles
I had to vanquish
Before I could be
Air burns through my nostrils
Winter is here, for a few days
He fumbled for a lighter in his pockets
The night was young
It was a full moon, and the stars
Revealed their glow in full bloom
How small,
We are, indeed
Trapped in a cage
We built to hide from the monsters
Gnawing at our souls
Since the inception
I remember when I lost my mind
For the first time
So much sense lies within reach
Once you stumble upon the edge,
A wise man to your left
An unlit cigar between his lips
Silence beneath the dome
Where poetry is woven
Grubs on a leaf, we are
Erudite, never, as we scramble for a few bites
And four walls we call home
The profoundest of beliefs are the ones
We could chew away without pains
Someone once said that the moon
Was a perished sun
And ever since then there was a bitterness in my throat
A compelled apology of a lover, at nightfall
When I watched the sun set
How could we call it a thief, that silent rock
That was older than sin
When all this time, it was a martyr ?
The lesser light, the middle son
The gendarme of the night; its glory stolen
Its part of the story, hitherto
Forgone.