The Wounded Soul
The Wounded Soul1 min 169 1 min 169
The roses they say are the beauty of the world,
But it pains when the spines get curled.
The fingers are scratched and the blood sheds,
From the heaven a power emerges to clean the reds.
The broken glasses of this world do join
But the attachers used here are not a rupee or a coin.
The poets the curlers of the words don't do rules.
The dawn they call the sunrise from the cruise.
Stopping by the roads not taken till date,
The air inside their lungs is not what they inflate.
It's a curse, a boon both working for them at the same time
And the heart calls for a pen.
The inner self secrets a bulky weathered storm,
The rocks not touched from the dusk till dawn.
The ultimate theory reveals graceful grief.
He crosses the bays to end up from where he did leave.
Crafting the beauty, calling the role.
They are the craftsmen who touch the soul.
All these years, they call for the one through their words.
And gently before their end write"My dear love it no more hurts".