Just thoughts

  Thattekad, where I was one with nature's perfection. © 2026 Rithvik Bala Praveen Shankar

I To some she lives In a meadow, flooded with The gold of April sun; there she is, Within arm's reach, whichever Direction one turns in By dictation of fancy. II To some she lives On an island far away; severed clean From everyday places and people. To attain her is a struggle. Not heroic. The real, dirty kind. With tears, heartache, some more tears. In these characters' melodrama, she is Unbelievably far, yet not unattainable. And perhaps (and I can only guess) That attainment is the absolutest of victories If attained, that is. III To me, she lives In a palace of frosted glass. I see her move, a figure Animated, but without definition. And the glass is frosted like frost On the day after new year: no fun. No festive cheer. Just cold. And obstructive. And breaking it, I'm afraid, Is impossible. I have tried. Or maybe not, and maybe Breaking it would break one's heart Or breaking one's heart would break it. It must be either one. I wouldn't. Beauty is not worthy...

  By Rithvik Dedicated to a friend who is impossible to hate.