Fearlessly Human

I am soul,

slowly plucking every lodged thorn

of bitter uncertainty

like a diligent gardener tending to his

favourite germanium, scouring away the weeds

caressing the persistent tremors of the soul

to a calming silence.

my nostrils slowly sip the morning dew,

to try and heal the scalds

down my lungs, wrought by my woes

and help my heavy eyelids close in peace.

I have undressed my soul of all fear and doubt.

let the mellow April sun of love soothe and burn

my newly shed, and growing, skin

let my heart prepare to be tossed, bruised,

shaken, crushed, broken

and mended with the most beautiful strokes

of gold and silver.

I am ready to be fearlessly human.

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My Quiet Hours Doodling

(Doodle by author) Those strokes hold some power over my soul. Every stroke of black ink on the paper carries my flow of zen. I feel my zen flowing through the bold lines of ink, as it seeps into the thin paper and leaves an imprint on the next page, like a faint footprint of time on a page left unwritten, a sliver of the blank pages of the future. I feel my throbbing anger, roaming curiosity and emotion trapped within drain from my veins and flow out like ink. It calms the raging storm within, liberates the compressed frustration, when emotion and doubt cloud my sight, when I cannot quite find answers to questions within. I let it take form. I let my mind and soul wander on paper, and they imprint traces of great wars fought in turmoil. I let the strokes clash into one another; some overshadow others, some lie far apart. Yet, the raw self cannot bear rules. I let the imperfections rule the paper, and that is what makes me raw, real and human. In the end, the wild strokes embrace and I...

Reminiscing

(Photo by Nong Vang on Unsplash ) It was a still, quiet night. The air seemed untouched by the maddening chaos in my mind. I glanced at the night sky, and spotted a star glimmering in the distance. The unusually gripping sight brushed me back to a fragment of my past, a chapter sealed long before. A whiff of my past my naive self still lived in. A life I had long left. I used to enjoy observing the tiny flickers of light, while my heart filled with hope for tomorrow. They looked like little flames whose glowing tips waltzed in the gentle evening wind. Those quiet, fulfilling moments spent squinting at tiny specks of light, while savouring the crisp air with traces of floral detergent from the clothesline, were one of a kind. Something no productivity chart would ever be able to explain. It was something I was not yet accustomed to; living a new life with new people, making new memories. Those little joys and fears that would excite my younger self. It's moments like these, moments...

Saffron

The snow of the mountains, still Bear the scarlet stains of your final act, The crisp, solemn winter air of Pinglan, still Stands a witness to the last moments of greatness. Even on your human case crumbling, The brilliance of your sacrifice Shone through the valiant bullet wounds. No matter the ages that trudge through, The rousing drum of your strength, Bravery amid paralysing pain, Strength amid the chaos, The sincerity of your offering, Like that of the great Kunwar Singh, Will echo in my heart for a lifetime. Your willing welcome of the last second, Pushes me to transcend the trivialities of life, And readily sacrifice what man holds on to, For a purpose greater than myself Or anything that I call my own. The unfathomable love and pride you nurtured For the soil that we shared, Stirs my soul to rise to the occasion, And fight till the very end, Even if it meant sacrificing myself. As you arrived home, after months of separation Wrapped in streaks of saffron and emerald, Our h...

fledgling

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