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The melting point

Strong as an iron bar he smashed misery out of his life.
Friendships have broken, dreams have been shattered, he treated ’em all as a baseball and hit it hard enough for making a home run.
His home being whichever valley had the right breeze then.
He moved on…time and again,
without losing the smile.
Nobody could suck the beaming spirit out of his body. Nobody!
He could still cross fences of desolation, and fortify the pillars of trust.
Wanderer, he, had come across different brands of humans in his expedition,
And he knew what farewell meant.

And yet he didn’t. When it came to her.

The new chapter took away the words that described her,
Glued to that ink-less void, he sat petrified,  as people, life and time lapsed.

Days flew him to some valley’s breeze, some mountain offered a hand,
Time wrapped him in a new face,
The cold world solidified him again,
Only this time, he could not be less brittle.

Published in Poetry

2 Comments

  1. Shrey Shrey

    Poignant. And so humane.

  2. Ipsita Ipsita

    Farewell to thee! but not farewell
    To all my fondest thoughts of thee:
    Within my heart they still shall dwell;
    And they shall cheer and comfort me.
    O, beautiful, and full of grace!
    If thou hadst never met mine eye,
    I had not dreamed a living face
    Could fancied charms so far outvie.

    If I may ne’er behold again
    That form and face so dear to me,
    Nor hear thy voice, still would I fain
    Preserve, for aye, their memory.

    That voice, the magic of whose tone
    Can wake an echo in my breast,
    Creating feelings that, alone,
    Can make my tranced spirit blest.

    That laughing eye, whose sunny beam
    My memory would not cherish less; —
    And oh, that smile! whose joyous gleam
    Nor mortal language can express.

    Adieu, but let me cherish, still,
    The hope with which I cannot part.
    Contempt may wound, and coldness chill,
    But still it lingers in my heart.

    And who can tell but Heaven, at last,
    May answer all my thousand prayers,
    And bid the future pay the past
    With joy for anguish, smiles for tears?

    –Anne Bronte

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