Why mind, tells heart, to not believe
What eyes, don’t see, and hands, don’t feel
I glimpse her, each dawn, and every eve
Waiting that, mystique, to reveal!
She rustles past, the relics, of fall
As though, distant rain, stirs my heart
Like the, sublime sin, of a, fond recall
Is she, lost symphony, of Mozart!
Which florets, create this, silhouette
That mutate, into souls, with wings
Then scatter, strands of, this vignette
Like rosary beads, o’er, broken strings!
Who falls, for a, fleeting enigma
Poised between, beauty, and its lies
Yet a joy, beyond, joie de vivre
Who Blossoms Into Butterflies!
© 2019 Vikas Chandra