कार्मेल #8 (a new series for 2025)

Upon the morrow’s gentle light,

A maiden fair doth tread,

Unwitting of her visage bright,

Or grace by angels led.

Her locks, like threads of woven gold,

In wayward breezes play,

Yet knoweth not, this lass so bold,

How hearts she steals away.

Her eyes, wherein the heavens dwell,

See naught but common hue,

Blind to the charms that therein swell,

And all the world construe.

She counteth freckles, marks, and scars,

As blemish on her skin,

Yet knoweth not how wondrous are

The worlds that lie within.

Her laughter, like a silver bell,

Doth gladden all who hear,

Yet deemeth she, in shadows fell,

Her worth be less than clear.

O, would that she could see her soul

As others surely do—

A rare and precious, gleaming whole,

Of beauty ever true.

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कार्मेल #12 (a new series for 2025)

I don't know how to unlove you. Not when my body still folds like origami at the memory of your name. Not when I flinch at your cologne on a stranger walking past. Not when my grief still speaks your language. People say "move on" as if love is furniture. As if I can pack it in boxes and send it away without it haunting every inch of who I am.

कार्मेल #11 (a new series for 2025)

Worth the Risk I just want you to know- In the quiet spaces of my heart, A wish begins to grow: To pursue you, to make a start. I want to take this leap, To risk it all for you, For in your presence, deep Within, I know it’s true- You are worth the risk, A treasure beyond compare. Win or lose, I won’t regret The love I choose to share. What matters most to me Is not the end, but this- That you feel, undeniably, How precious you truly is. So let me show you every day How lovable you are, How much you mean in every way- My guiding, shining star.

Truth of Poetry

Reading has always been a part of me. I loved the world that books offer, taken into a world of mystery, fiction, and to the lives of those autobiographies and biographies. Delving in parallel worlds that are similar to the world that I live in but better, an escape from the tragedies of this mere reality. A deep part of this desire was because the stories that these stories tell of a world that anyone would be a part of, wonders beyond imagination, and lives that anyone can desire. Whether its set in the past, present, or future, it was a desirable escape. But to write my own never came into fruition, the same fire that bore these writers has not done me the same halo. But soon I was able to translate those words into my own, using it as sharp sword in my own arsenal. But i was limited to the rhetoric of essays. I could say anything and express everything in an essay, because like rhythm was my enemy. Looking for the right tangents and connections to words was far difficult for me, Bu...

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