finding my way back to the home of happiness
from the dome of sadness,
I saw her on those empty caves of silence;
scarred with anxiety
she had nothing but fear to eat
(which is beautifully painful as we all know.)
Instead of telling
those three little words to life,
she was dating depression and kissing
its cyanide lips
while dancing on the suicide floor.
Those golden years were either bleeding
from her wrists
with cuts of harsh words
written on the sharp edges of other's tongues
or fading in the smoke of coffee and cigarettes.
And on one Sunday morning,
she wrapped her heart in a promise
to climb the hills of ups and downs
with little steps of even on an odd path
leaving the shadow of isolation behind.
she is blooming under the trees of success
in a kingdom of serenity;
chasing the butterflies of tomorrows
in open fields of clarity;
flourishing the dead ambitions
with fragrance of her soul —
a place where the sun of her dreams never sets...
her beauty is spring to those eyes
which have witnessed her fall.