roses of the world

e g l a n t e r i a

The Word Weaver

She reminisced the days when her mother
used to wake her from sleep by nuzzling her cheeks
so soft and pinkish followed by playful tickles
while the petite body she had was being touched
by the glow and warmth of the morning sun
coming through the chamber's glass window.
With a sweet smooch― mother's lips she would punish 
then from the bed cheerfully rise,
run to a pink wheeled school bag ornamented
with little details and a sparkling mariposa
and inside search her companions for a play―
painted on an innocent face was a priceless smile
as the writing pad from the bag she would free
along with her favorite custom pencil from its case.
On a notepaper she would begin
to move her little hand gripping the pencil
and make its tip glide upon its surface―
like it was a ballerina gracefully performing
in a slow motion on a platform,
in cursive forming her name― slowly
as though every trial was graded.
Practicing was a portion in her morning routine,
thus the first little one in the class
that mastered writing letters in cursive.
Euphoria while holding a paper and a pen
on her face was yet reflected when her age
had reached fourteen and from different paradise
permeated with scent of books and occupied
with countless stories hidden in covers,
journals and diaries were purchased.
Every sunset came with an entry
she scribbled down with those bright eyes
for every day was a happy chapter,
experience she would morph into history
before the arrival of the black sky.
Words became her loyal intimates.
Words put a galaxy in her mind.
Words made her complete―
like the deep space Chaos decorated
with handful of planets and millions of stars
and together formed a masterpiece,
perfect and majestic.
Then, present―
the present pinched her.
Tears began drowning her cheeks
and dropping on her journal's blank page.
She is finally a grown up
and the darkness of humanity
and intricacies of life and the world
had made the dust devil replace
the galaxy in her mind.
Unlike the bygones where she used
to be naive and happy,
where she used to write
about beauty and happiness,
now she is open-eyed and heavy-hearted―
and has to write about mess and agony.
Love for words still as great as ever
and passion in writing did not perish,
but unlike the bygones,
now she writes― to lighten
her aching burden.