I've written for far too long,
For too many beauties,
And pains ephemeral are now
Long asleep in a tranquil trance in my poems.

Now I am repelled by the thought
Of the termite of poetry nibbling on me again.
The once romantic trip to the hazy forest,
To collect morning dew in raincatcher feel tedious.

To collect words as they fall from beyond
The firmament realm.
And to carefully embroider and embalm,
The scars with the sweetest words.

Now this decorated rag has flown, rejected and discarded
From steps and stairs to come at last to you lair.
Atlast i wish to be someone's poetry,
Tended to, provided for and then left carelessly to study the seams.

To rot within the paper's depths while biting dust,
And to sublime into the margins where the flower rusts.
Its rewarding still to be one with
The pages where she feels safe and heard.
-Divyosmi Goswami