Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same

The winter sat in me loud and galore,

Alas, the summer that once warmed the heart sings in me no more.

The beauty of life sets in its amorous swarm,

As the circumcircle of time mellows us to its charm.

Gentle as the wind, the mighty humans befall in its name,

A thing of beauty loses its luster as the stellar of its fame,

Absconds the defamed game.

Belief is the elixir that surmounts every dream,

They say a woman’s first blood comes from biting her tongue and not between her legs,

Alas in the agony of reality, the divine feminine screams.

Lustful eyes abhor the chastity of the pure,

Yet society tells a woman all the reasons she is deemed to endure.

Tales of eternal love in the books I have read,

Where the Almighty loved his Goddess in every breath,

The equality of two individuals marked the divine union of two souls,

Who in the completeness of devotion of one another, immersed in each other as a whole.

Alas in silent footsteps reality creeps in,

The whims of adulthood and the burden of responsibility emerge to win.

As I grew older, the idea of a love that oozes whirlwind passion lost its allure,

To the blinding pain of being in your twenties, the thought of stability succeeded in being its cure

The false notion of he is more than myself than I am, whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same forged to be counterfeited lie,

We live in a generation where half-broken hearts in their animosity belie.

Love bloomed in its spring, gentleness in every heartbeat it bled,

Alas mourned the fall of autumn, as the lover in me marked its death

-Hridya