Of Fleeting Fancies

With what words shall I write to you?
Shall I use those precise and refined
So clean, so crisp and pure?
Or shall I let dignity go blind,
And utter words, no church can cure?
Tell me, how shall I write to you?

How shall I say the words?
Forming in my very soul, in tears
Failing and drowning inside,
Too adhered to pride and fears;
Till quivering lips make no sound,
Except for a breath expelled in clear
Resignation, acknowledging my cowardliness;
How shall I say the words?

How shall you hear the truth?
In halting, ambiguous sentences,
Or prose in high, crystal tone;
Half false, half untrue, full verses?
Or should I leave sight to converse alone,
In hope that the message gets through?
Pray, how shall you hear the truth?

How shall I confess to you?
That nights no longer hold sleep,
And days are fogged over in a haze,
While I contemplate a dream;
Thoughts follow lost paths in a maze,
Fretting over consequences
Of events that have not yet come to pass;
It is madness: I hear, I see, I do.
How shall I blame this madness on you?

Sreedevi

A scar to tell...

Scars abound; pink, white and brown,
Each with a tale to tell;
Some in anguish, many in sorrow,
A few in happiness as well.
A story to each, from scrapes on knees,
To stretches across a plane;
Perhaps our tricks and climbing trees,
Or rough-housing, when games remain, not games.
A sharpened blade, a broken glass,
Edges unnoticed by the eye;
A clenching fist, with digging nails,
Efforts to see through a lie.
The need to feel a thing besides,
A broken heart, ripped from its place;
Hope withdrawn and pain derived,
With salten rain in call to disgrace.

Sreedevi.