Reader in the Mountains

 I miss the days of the Letter The ones I'd get from my grandfather Once a month I'd gleam with cheer I'd run around re-tracing the words written I'd tuck those words inside my memory The sound of the postman's bells The Jingle of the envelopes creaks The joy of finding one that had my name The waft of air and shaped wax The touch of dried ink and postage stamps In the days of instant chats and blue ticks I was happy to be remembered even every few weeks I miss the days of The Letter When I would carefully think of what to tell him Maybe I should omit that I got my ankle twisted I weighed my words I thought of the him before writing My words were aimed at sending love My words were hoped for bringing joy In the times of Instant chats and video calls I would cherish the photograph sent  I'd remember the way the sunrays fell on the ground The way my cousin winked an eye at the camera The way my grandmother looks almost shy I miss the days of the Letter I wonder ho...

 And just like that  It's ten years back  And the muscles of my heart remember One step forward, two steps back The mirrors. The reflections. The cracks One step forward, two steps back The eyelids that quiver The thoughts that shiver The heart that pounds in your back It's ten years back Run away, I hear Don't face it, you know what's on the other side It grasps me, the fear Run away, don't face it. You'll always have to hide It takes one moment of courage To change your story One push of a button One closed door now open After a hundred thousand steps It's ten years back And I'm walking on the other forked road The muscles of my heart still remember The eyelids still quiver  Two steps forward, one step back But now I know I have my back.

 I spun a million specks into silk And curved inside, quiet The cocoon protects me, they say  I listen. I flow. I tune them out I change. I grow. I seed my sprout The coccoon remains white The cycle appears unmoving I keep mulching the ground Relentless. Spinning. Untiring. One day, it turned red. The shell And I felt my power grow The coccoon still felt stiff But the butterfly had wings now It takes the hardest push Just before the shell cracks open I smiled at the chrysalis, as I flew away I didn't have wings then

 This heart is not made of flowers This heart is not made of stone It's made of the stories I read  It's made of a few songs It's made of a pain that bled From the knife it's long borne It's made of the yesterdays  That have kept me awake; forlorn It's made of the places that have stayed the same  And the steps that have moved on It's made of bubbles and bloom It's made of rights and wrongs It's made of the cups of joy on beaches It's made of footprints and sunburns This heart is made of flowers It's made of hope written in stone

 A place so quiet that you can't sleep The cacophony in your head  Effervescent A place so dark that you clearly see The monsters under your bed Discontent A place so quiet that you whisper The sound of dread Unspent A place so dark that you shut eyes The nightmares fed Content

 There is a small place in time  Between what is thought and what is said  Where cocoons spin out as butterflies Their opalescent wings spread Where thoughts pirouette as daydreams And ideas remain undead Where love awaits expression And words voice anger instead Step back and see; it's an eon The place endlessly extending ahead Then why do we find ourselves In a puddle where someone's heart bled There's an abundant place in time Between what is thought and what is said Where I now sprawl my words  And behold what I have fed