Been a while

 

Been a while

Scarce it is, to be felt in muse,

Weaving stitches of the inflamed bruise,

The sheer beats of the tremulous heart,

Is it so hard not to wrench apart?

At times it settles on my mind

Of all the drills I put to grind

Of all the accused forms of void -

Of all the intended decoys

Never did I skip an ounce of breath

Which endeared the love I bred.

Is it too hard to touch the shrine?

To nuture and make it all mine?

Seems afar, the treasure of love

Its fortuitous heir blessed from above. 

Riddhi Chakraborty