By: Vishakha Sen
I am not in Love; Love is in me.
I wish to turn into rust now, but it is my old ironsmith.
My mother had instilled it in me.
From womb to the world, it has chiseled me.
I do not seek for Love. It conspires to reign inside me.
I seal doors with time. It hammers them open,
With heated anger of prime.
It makes me credulous at times.
Serving goodness, hoping the same from others.
It drifts tears porous, sledging them down with force tremendous.
During moments when others do not bother.
This ironsmith never gives up to my horror.
Preserving sweet memory jars, it tags each with past in vivid description.
Love warns me to take care of special occasions.
Yes, I could have thrown them afar.
But no! I cannot, as love softens my heart.
I knock my heart to stay strong.
Nobody cares, emotions are now an easy pawn.
I stroll around corners of my heart.
Carrying lantern of knowledge, to find love whom my brain bars.
Gave it to fools and smart.
I pitch for it to stay apart.
But love fails to depart.
It returns to me with burnt palm.
“See! I told you I am your ironsmith.
In those takers, I shall never fit.
You think you are weak for you immensely feel?
But look! You are a pillar with grit.
You help heart, to laugh and weep.
I cook tears to lighten brain as it stresses out in heap.
You are kind, which is superb.
Your innocent heart is an altar to purge.
World may just fall into a pit.
Turn dark and selfish.
But expressing emotions,
is an honest deed.
I shall keep mending you. Never stop to feel.”
Your ever-old Ironsmith.