Nux Poemica (#WIA2021)

Day 5: The sun builds a home in this poem

Note: I wrote this poem in response to the prompt 'Spring is about growth. Take a sad poem you wrote this month and write a sequel that is consciously happy' by Sam Payne (@bysampayne on Instagram). I took a poem titled 'If you are looking for a ray of hope in this poem, you'll find none' I wrote in March and wrote a happy sequel for it. Here I'll share the sad poem after the sequel.

~~~~~

Wake up and become a water fountain, bursting with so much energy
that I can flood the pathway.
I don't want to still. I don't want to become a sleeping river.
My bones are mansions, thick with the celebration of self-love,
my name a decree chanted by the flowers.
I am always climbing staircases that lead me to the sun.
The steps are mottled with gold carpets to soothe my tired feet.
What am I, if not a daffodil in human form?
I am succulent with bliss and hence I let sorrow moonwalk off my heart.
On most days, I am a sea of starlight, glowing, glowing, glowing,
to become a breath of bright blue.
I waltz to the tune of my heart (I am enough, I am enough),
burn the embers of my past, kiss my heartbreaks a goodbye,
and find myself sleeping on a bed of sunflowers.
I am now a poem, encapsulating so much hope.
So, come closer to this yellow soul.

~~~~~

Wake up and become a never-resting Ferris wheel,
each cabin carrying a responsibility.
Oh, how I wish I could unhinge myself and become a rollercoaster for once.
My bones are haunted houses, thick with emptiness and suppressed energies.
I am always climbing staircases that lead nowhere.
Neither there are landings nor plush carpets to comfort my parched foot.
What am I, if not a rag-doll stuffed with suffering?
I am already a succulent abode of ache that I cannot be
overwatered with more tribulations.
On most days, I am a lump of sand stuck to the top of an hourglass,
dribbling, dribbling, dribbling, to become a mound of disappointment to myself.
I sashay through time's fickle passage, scratch nostalgia's skin,
and juice every object around me, all for a sip of peace,
but all I find is my body warming up to this mundane's caress.
I warned you about not finding hope in this poem,
so please stay away from this decrepit woman.