Myriad Reflections. Shastri Akella

Across the shores of vicissitude
Shattered dreams, broken window panes,
Echoes of a lifetime scattered across barren planes,
Searching glances responded to with an accusing gaze,
Promises of an eternity effaced by a distending haze,
A riot of thoughts squabble with intimidating questions,
The heart a hapless prey for the ensuing belligerent machinations,
Roses of love pile up in discarded heaps,
Their sheen lies wilted, their beauty consumed in eager leaps,
Stealthy marauders pilfer from the garden of the soul,
Leaving behind a bleeding gash and an unending hole,
The soul as always offers congenially,
Eclectic beams of love veiling its eyes ingeniously,
That the marauder is an alley is the soul’s surmise,
Only after the damage is done does it awake to the guise,
Aching with the pangs of a lost bloom,
Tear-stained eyes watch the merry marauder with irrepressible gloom,
Eyes shut on illusory promises and unfaithful love,
Life shut on discarded horizons and a wing-broken dove,
Moments limp along on the crutches of the past,
Hoping the end is approaching fast,
And then one day, a prosaic truth draped in a ashen white cloak,
Knocks on the closed doors of life with a gentle stroke,
‘Pray, let me in the shut doors’ it pleads,
The heart refuses even as it pitifully bleeds,
Utters an unperturbed truth, ‘The faster you accept me as a guest,
The easier can you giver your turmoil a rest,
It is in your best interest,
That you accept my behest’
Doors splay open, the charred innards revealed,
Truth stares on, its calm disposition pealed,
‘My name in unrequited love’ states the guest,
‘You have loved and lost, left with but an aching chest,
Mark my words – new horizons await,
There is much more to life than infidel love that offers you as bait,
Life is a canto divine,
If you but become mine,
That’s the secret of life my dear,
Accept the truth, and redolent blooms appear swiftly nearly’,
As the heart throws truth a suspicious glance,
A waft reaches it – almost by chance,
The aromatic wafts heal it some,
And the heart absentmindedly utter, ‘Many more dawns, yet to come’,
‘A thousand suns wait to be discovered behind every cloud,
If only the eyes discern and shed their melencholic shroud’.