Her mind is
Nothing but a wonderful blessing
And here I am
But a blunt feather
Blown away by her endless wind
I float along the hush of her whisper
Of how grand of an angel she is
Eternally too big
And too much
To fit in
Our ordinary universe.
A writer always has something to say. Hurricanes of thoughts and distorted letters whirl the minds every tick of the clock. It devastates wholeness resulting to displacement of souls, cracking of skulls into million pieces. But this is what a writer aims and lives for. Voices that kept screaming and kicking at senses needed artistic strokes of pen against the smooth divine paper is the sole ecstasy a writer hungers for. But what seemed to be the heavenly process of filling the void can build the highest grounds shielding from this train of thought, putting halt to the only voice a writer could write, shutting off the luminance of life. This is the ultimate time of silence, this is what I am afraid of.
[image courtesy of huffington post]