she glides in the still pool,

her golden locks spilled in water

half hides her face.

a work of renaissance art

procelean skin,

scintillating under the light of the night

the cold she felt within is reflected on her lips, blue

for she kissed not a mortal but an ivy before parting.

they say she was mad

never asked why?

she longed for sanity

not that she didn’t try.

dejected by love, rejected by mirth

the faces she met always cold and wry.

no more in conflict with herself

she sleeps in eternal peace.

the nightingale sings the dirge,

she wears the shroud of the night breeze.

the heaven weeps,

long spells of rain.

and in the distance

the church bell chimes.

© Wordpolitics

Ingredients for The Concoction of Happiness

put ‘anger’ , ‘loathing’ and ‘envy’ into the mortal and pestle it well.

set a pint of ‘consciousness’ in a large container of ‘affirmation’ and put it to boil on high flame till the vapours of ‘remorse’ and ‘hate’ evaporate and what you’re left with is clear ‘gratitude’.

strain the remains of ‘doubt’ and then add a pinch of ‘self-love’.

next , top it up with ‘faith’ and ‘trust’ plucked fresh from the garden of universe.

the perfect concoction of ‘happiness’ and ‘mirth’ is ready!

© Wordpolitics.


Clawed her locks and pulled it back,

The other pressed on her neck.

The scent of whiskey and perfume

Swayed in sinister moves.

He tried with all his ‘ man powers’

In his words to ‘ tame the beast ‘.

The indifferent placidity on her face

No tint of color

Made him flounder.

Unable to take the sly smirk

Born in her eyes

He buried her face in the pillow.

What harm could this puny being

Cause to her

When her ‘self’ is wondering somewhere

In the Forest of Delirium?

She laughed like mad!

© Wordpolitics

Thus cries Medusa

Not always have I been this ugly mass of flesh.

I had a face once considered to be decent.

Did play hide and seek in the old ruins of Cisthene.

Many a pale faced man

have been awed by my beauty.

Brave forms and sun balmed skins, enslaved by my aura.

My voice, said to be as sweet as the nectar in the fresh blossoms, that the bees suck and love being wasted.

But now, it’s just wistful yesterday’s that pierce my heart like shards of broken glass.

All these years reiterating the same words,

What was my fault?

My only fault, I lay trust on him and let him lure me to the temple of Athena.

Little did I know that he had veiled evil temptations under the blanket of the dark.

Robbed me of my chastity!

Before I could collect myself

The goddess of wisdom appeared.

Athena, mad with rage,

For we had littered her sanctious abode.

Then the curse she spake

echoes in my ears ever since.

A head full of adders for hair

A face so hideous, intended only to scare.

Yes! I do wish to be loved my a man,

His fingers to run down my spine exploring every inch of my skin.

Like a man lapping the beads of dew from the blades of grasses to quench his thirst.

I want to be loved thus!

But alas! In vain,

For I am destined to be so cold,

That the eyes that meet mine

Are turned to stone.

© wordpolitics.

Seeking for warmth!

I feel cold,

Severely cold.

I sit myself in front of the fireplace

It warms my skin.

But what for the chill

That I feel deep inside?

The coldness which at times

Shivers my soul too,

Freezes my heart

Making me place my hand on my bosom

To feel that beat

Which I think I might have missed.

© Wordpolitics