Literary Yard

Search for meaning


By: Satvika A. Menon

Maybe it was the roses that fell in rivulets beneath her feet
Or the powdery clouds that twirled above her hair.
Maybe it was the wind that sang ever so softly into her ears
Of the stream that gurgled gibberish so beautifully it was almost a language of its own.
Maybe it was the silence of the meadows
And the flutter of the wings of the broken yet glorious butterfly
Or maybe it was the twinge in her heart
And the spring in her cracked yet strong legs.
But in the end, it was her soul,
Lifting out golden memories framed in nectar-scented photo frames,
Little glimpses of the past, of the people that shaped her and made her-
Little glimpses of what was, and what still could be-
Glimpses of how many nectar-scented photo frames still lay waiting
For memories to fill them up.


She is shrouded in a cloak of misery,
Her soul crushed from days of desperation to survive,
Days of broken bones and bloody wrists,
Of stale bread and sorrow that nibbled away at her emotions.

She is enveloped in a haze of happiness,
Her soul painfully pieced back together
From years of walking amongst wilting flowers
And scooping up the colours of the sunset,
Of learning how to rekindle her love
With the broken planet.

She is forever young,
Her childhood preserved in torn diary pages and polaroids,
And memories of seaside dances
And the salty air embracing her skin.

She is still growing,
Still yearning
To feel the warmth of the earth
And make her whole

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