layers of colour spread over the palette,
some over her tiny hands,
the way she paints with them is beautiful,
only her tiny eyes will understand,
she said I painted mama,
in her favourite dress,
I wish she was alive,
to tell her it was her best.
Every time I see the mirror,
I see a contrast of images,
I sometimes see,
a kid wandering in the world,
lost in thoughts,
willing to paint the world,
in canvas of words.
And sometimes,
a writer struggling for words,
to paint the world,
in canvas of never seen words,
But the glass,
is a deceiving perception,
it makes us see,
Either
What we don’t have,
or what we need,
never it shows,
the real me.
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2014 © Christopher Martin
A Blizzard,
where winds howl,
like a direwolf,
missing his master,
where light is consumed,
even in the layers of white,
no living seen out,
no dead can be seen,
only sheer darkness,
ruling in the cold.
a boy cries strolling,
in the snow,
they say he was lost,
a few years ago,
his cries are not of pain,
but a whimsical laughter,
to bring out the living,
and play in snow,
those who go,
never come back,
but their cries are heard,
like the howlings,
every same day,
the child got lost.
It’s easy to float dead,
in a pool of mistakes,
to float till the bottom,
to be choked by,
filth of one actions,
than to,
to swim to the brim,
wash the mistakes,
with water of repentance,
this mucky pool,
that has drown you so long,
in a suffocating trip to the bottom,
to come out,
is not easy,
but it’s worth it.
Sitting in a coffee shop,
with a beautiful book to read,
seeing the raindrops falling,
all over the leaves,
through the fogged mirror,
something catches my attention,
a little girl rushes in the rain,
with such utter excitement,
she sits at the pavements,
and sails the paper boat,
that glides over the rain tide,
with no one aboard,
the girl sees the boat,
till it’s out of sight,
sighed a beautiful prayer,
with all faith in her might,
and I sit and wonder,
where did we fall apart?,
turning the pages of books,
is that what we really are?
she saw me sitting inside,
signaled me to join,
I learned the paper-boat again,
indeed it sailed pretty fine.
broken frame,
glass on the floor,
a letter unopened,
tears echoed,
for someone,
who said he would be back,
to read the night stories,
to play the games,
to take all camp side,
one sunny day,
But that day he became,
part of earth,
with clouds of tears,
thunders of disgust,
they all ask how it happened,
she now says proudly,
killed in action.
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I have seen the bright,
I have seen the glories,
they all tell me a lovely story,
how easy it is to see the light
even in the darkest times,
but not the darkness even in the brightest,
enough of your love,
I had till now,
show me your darkness,
show me your wounds,
show me the pain,
show me the worry,
I will kiss them away without any hurry.
and tell you something again and again,
that your darkness in heart will never go in vain.
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Writings to Heaven 