Verses from a recess.

From the vast expanse of pale cream, a ray pierced the sill   Some say that’s the epitome of ill.   Never did she utter  such trope   And never did she hear a dawn's rising chirp.   Sans a countenance that evoked despair  or drivel,   she  did glide o'er cold Earth  cavorting joy.   Encumbered by the shooing words of  a restless few   and her held  wish of  an inside hue   began she a ritual of  healthy hoy.   Words that gushed forth  like water  in   a  meadow’s pump,   Though  never  held captive  by  a   day's dump   Did stem on  a  lad's  cloy.   To say that one impacted the other   is to clutch  a  long  straw  with baby  paw.   Another ritual of  a weekly shed   Did in itself a worldly good   To the ...

An intention to do good, be good and say good.   Lay in all, lest their growth endured tumult.   Her words sang a mellow tune  to melt  the heart   While inconsistencies in action sang another.   As the ear sought to resolve this tussle   the mind fashioned another puzzle.   Of lies, lasses and love   Or a dual-blend of the above.  

Fickle is the judgement   W hen I talk of a person.   Heckle I do,   T o  accede  her   association.   In a trickle flows her flood   Of vacillations that are  venomous   O'er the past that never peter   A nd the present that  power passions.   Aided by a  lovely freckle   Sweetened by the gentle  treacle ,   Pacted  they  a possible future   O f kids, Kleenex and Crocin.   Then, t o take apart her soul   And lay bare her vulnerabilities   Had he any right or reason?   To heal her heart   A nd dull the pain   Does she hit out or hurt in?   Nights pass the day   A waiting in silence to torment her thoughts.   Days pass the night   To  whisk her  away from reliving   events  past.   This  raging memory ' slaught ...

To take one apart, Through words, not illusionary wretched actions. Is to strike at the spine, With a gilded dagger. 'But', a voice pipes 'This is done by intent' So he says, aptly. For he knows The feeling that swells in one and is serene to another Of how a strike unmindful for one Cuts a wound deep into another.

Mercy, so says Portia, is twice blest .   One who gives and  one who takes.   What then, of forgiveness?   Does  it offer solace, to parties two?   Heart-rending   cries rack the soul,   Upon whose eyes befall a fight's crest.   Plead with the giver  to   wrest away his ego,   Or  subdue the taker, to control her rage.   Maintaining aloofness   is to tread on a  flower-bed route ,   And  to sustain  on hope  that  a   simmer settles .   He who  forgives, frets  not  on a tussle mental.   She who accepts ,  awaits  and acknowledges follies.   Mercy, though, indicates an hierarchy.   Of the giver as  dominance , and the taker as  s ubservience.   Mercy, in excess, gnaws at  many a soul.   Forgiveness, in excess, feeds many a hope.   Thus ...