Tears of joy.

Mighty peaks, seemingly firm and unmoved,
Melt down in a mere monsoon, 
Into a collective wail of a thousand waterfalls.
It shall last the season.


Overdressed in an exotic fur of green,
and fuzzy clouds against will into an unfitting headgear,
The mountains with their expanded bases, finally at rest,
Are watching and sobbing.


Baked and cracked all summer, 
abandoned by their own family in search of more capable fathers.
Left alone to contemplate on this strange destiny
In the company of some wilting dry branches.
A harsh summer indeed.


Today with everyone home,
Nothing seems overdressed, nothing too much.
The joy so great, that smiles fail.
The mountains are weeping in joy of homecoming.
It shall last the season.

It did not stop him to find his soul, his happiness. His sanity welded to his beliefs, his happiness attached to his sand castles. He built them, he believed in them, he played with them and lived in them. People thought he was insane, but they were people. And people speak.
So what if his dreams were as impractical like peacocks in flight. But they were his, and of his creation. They were beautiful and they weren't wrong.


People were jealous after all. 

There was a boy. He thought that the grapes were green and the apples red. That all peaches were peaches. That trees were still and hearts moved. Once he saw grapes that weren't green and apples that weren't red. Peaches that were apricots afterall. He saw trees running with him, some fast and some slow while inside a train and that the overwhelming site of it all blinked no eye, the excitement moved no heart.

Rain.

Raindrops fall on my skin, pecking softly,

As spent fingers, on an old typewriter.

Glazing and polishing,

Losing me to the reflections.

Like an old woodworker

Cautious to scar the wood- just enough.

Drops evoke the many serpents on my forehead,

Into a slithering gait of a perplexed variety.

Creasing and creating channels,

Bounding liberating showers into pain.

The ones that survive, in the alcove of the eyes, nurtured-

Awaken the incapable tears of an earlier occasion,

They too fall.

I love the rain.

It stirs me to a thick consistency.

I am me and I loose myself.

It cools my charred skin of the sun’s brawl,

It burns my heart away of its coldness.

Rain provokes my pain,

Rain, conceals it too.

I too fall.