On People

A thousand pages held within,

She writes on each with care,

Some flew taking her ink away,

Some blew the words in air. 

Few tales resided in her heart,

Few trails depicting end, 

She carves a rhyme on all of them, 

She tries her best to blend. 

She grieves in pain of days that saw,

A sentence midway leaving ,

She rejoices in the joy of words, 

That helped in better weaving.

She writes of all deceit that came, 

In metaphors all appealing, 

Her pen does bleed in oxymorons,

Of love that promised healing.

In hopes of a better smiling verse, 

Her ink goes on flowing ,

With letters changing every night, 

She saves her poems from blowing.

-StringentBard (Hafsah Faquih)