“A Sacred being in time she is”
In time, her reflection will morph with space. Her mannerism is brisk yet mild. Like the whiff of camphor, memories flood in with no back window,
They stagnate there, never gliding away.
She is always quiet. Slightly hard-headed. Seldomly detached. Never over-bearing. No, never over-bearing. So that she may be worthy of love,
A dream that disrupts her tossing at night.
She’d watched herself grow without changing. Drowning herself in knowledge and skills. Migrating to new world in search of peace. Sinking herself in despair, deception and abandonment,
What a cynical admiral of love, she’d become.
At every stage of her evolution. she’d considered herself weaker, so the age to shed her harsh shell drew nearer
“But what use is counting time. When she, herself is a representation of it”
One puff is all it takes to rouse her biggest critic, even then, the high was not enough to cleanse the crater that lay siege in her salty lungs,
Something else broke inside her.
Expunged of all conditions before the fall. She ponders the bitter sweet moment she lust for, but control eludes her. Hence, she shut her doors, her eyes, and her heart,
Never more to be opened again.
Finally folded her life into a memory box. A day at a time. Delved into past insecurities. Unravelled the spool of her wounds. She’s sailed through a fluster of change,
And made a stop at every port.
Many-a-night she’d stare out the window. And wish upon Nebula. For abundance in strength. Maybe she grants her wish this time, maybe not,
Only the sardonic hands of time will tell.
They dubbed her, fallen phantom. She is sacred for nobody taught her the subtle charm of humility. The heritage that cradles her venerated heart,
In her time, she will be extraordinary.
As she nestles her head on cotton clouds, she see the quaintness of this fiction-less mosaic . A moment she clearly wasn’t meant to miss,
The conditions that sets ablaze an estranged part in her precious box.