Recently, I have been bitten by the poetry bug. I don’t know exactly when it happened, but I know it did. Some days I don’t get the time to even look at myself in the mirror, but I still write.
I. Oh! How the heart aches For liquid gold that slipped through your fingers, For air which you could not trap in your lungs forever, For your neighbor’s pride, You never got a look inside The box, it could be a
Gentle sunbeams, honeyed fields entwined lovers, gurgling streams vibrant fluttering, petrichor surround me on my walk. Seen, unseen. I return to pencil tales of melancholy. A poem? a slice of fiction? or some delightful non-ficton? #WordSante will give you an