By Krupalini Pattjoshi
Screaming at the pain, and stopped feeling insane.
Little drops of tear, lost in the drizzling rain.
The rain that heals,
and fades fake feels!
Flourishes in teal
and makes several meals.
The same rain it is,
drenching me in gloom.
With pristine droplets,
that made Chickweeds bloom.
Gone is the bloom,
my garden free of weeds.
Petals crushed in agony,
fertilising rose seeds.
But roses don’t grow seeds,
as a matter of fact!
Weeding is just a show,
a melancholic act.
Next time it rained,
out of the window I gaze
looking at the barely visible,
mostly covered in haze.
But I am bored to stick around
or discover something profound.
My heart resents to look past,
the covering of blurry trees.
With or without the rain,
painfully same it is.