By Chandana J.S.
You speak of skies, a boundless blue expanse.
Yet all I see is a greyed out, silvered shroud,
A heaven hidden in warm undertones,
echoing the absence of light.
You say of oceans, calm and safe.
Yet I stand before a stagnant shore,
A still oasis where life once played its part,
But now, a forgotten drama in the background.
You praise the fire's strongest flames.
Yet only a faintest blue light persists,
A fading torch in the winter,
where once it guided the confused.
You say the land's greener when watered-
with tender care and disguised comfort,
But where to spill the stream,
and whom to entrust with the task?
Better late than never, so they say,
"Open rebuke is better than secret love."
I’m glad I stumbled upon your poem today. It speaks in a soft embrace and has a warthm in it, the kind of sadness that speaks to you in hushed whispers on a cloudy morning. Beautifully written, Chandana.
Reading this felt like walking through someone’s memories after a long rain, soft, heavy, and honest. I could almost see the sky you described, not in bright blue, but in that muted silver-grey that only certain days carry. The way you spoke of fire and land made me think of how we hold onto the memory of warmth or growth, even when we can’t find it in the present. And that ending… it’s almost a whisper, but it lands with the weight of a full conversation. I’m keeping that line with me today.