Posted in Epics, Poetry


How gullible is this little empress 
So unaware of these shenanigans 
She embosoms a pretentious sleeping face 
And nibbles at my sideburns
As she chants her dulcet hums 
I capture each and every inch 
Of her niveous complexion 
That eclipses the spirit of wintertide
Dawn being an escape artist 
Leaves her heartfelt tunes 
To grow a bit morose 
Because it’s time for us to run errands
For a while I’m left wondering 
If in downtown we were to dwell 
Would she be as doleful as she is now 
Once the clock struck aubade?
Or would her doting nature 
Vanish with the morning haze? 
In a jiffy my thoughts are shushed down 
And that’s exactly why I call her my Pumpkin
But why is she busy contemplating 
On what she must prepare for grub 
When she knows I will be appeased 
With just some cottage cheese, tofu and malt?
The wind snatches her handmade tents
I open my semi-closed eyelids questioning her mien
Then again I grasp her natural foundation 
While she finishes ruffling my hair
She nods her head sideways saying she is amused 
Oh! And all along I believed she was pure blank! 
“By the way, Good Morrow Dear,”
Her wordy grape-like eyes slowly speak.
Somewhere in what we call a fortress
Under the balmy skies and woven cardigans
He nestles up merrily to my embrace
With daydreams of a child, skipping about ferns
His false, heavy breaths tickle my eardrums
And simultaneously compete with our goldfinch
To win my soft chuckles and flushing reflection
However, I feel he has something to confide
His right clenched fist
Tells me his mind is forming dunes
Out of a blooming rose
Reducing our love to gerunds
But even if he kept me on a broken swing
In a deserted warehouse or a pumpkin shell
My soul would always be ready to bow
Bow down to him, just like a barricade
His head-rest, my cross-legged posture
Then guides him through this vulnerable phase
I would grab the hems of my worn-out gown
And fling all those question marks towards a bin
Now I shall carry on fixing
A somewhat banquet in our castle’s hub
And in the process of my being teased
A deep serenade comes to a halt
Glistening dewdrops bedew our hung-out garments
The ultimate incandescence also hits our screen
Brightening up our mere accommodation
Though just his view, can beat its flair
He tilts his front as if I were bemused
When actually, I hadn’t fallen prey to his prank
“Well, Good Morrow Reindeer,”
He swiftly responds, with a lopsided cheek.
~Poem 9


(Picture credits- Nami)


Your average girl.

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