Lost love of a versifier...

I loved her with all my heart,
The muse of my script.
What she did?
She laughed; she scorned and made fun of me.
Without even noticing how it hurts,
She just went on disquieting me.

A devoted versifying soul,
Whose hub of spirit fountain her name.
Crying loud to draw her pity,
(surely) that’s all in vain.
She had no notice of me,
Neither did she know that I adored,
Or may be, with her usual air,
She just pretended…

How can this be true?
That she doesn’t know.
I conceived her granted gaze,
Or was it just a show?
Some blurred images haunt my mind...
Of the days which passed by,
Of the days when she was with me.
When she was right beside,
When my pen made it high,
Lively presence of a heavenly being.

Oh! What were those days,
With you and your terms.
With your fragrance all around,
Days were so glinting,
Grief had no space to fill.
As no pleasure last for long,
So did our love had gone,
So did our merry ended,
And we met never.
But I am still waiting,
Waiting for my muse;
Days will come for sure,
When words will again sprout.

Cassandra fable...

Baby Cassandra...

Baby Cassandra bubbling high,
Who'll listen to a blurting child?
She is sweet, they call her cute,
She’s a doll, she’s no muse.
Life she knows little,
Little baby Cassandra.
Take her to the fairyland,
So the angels embrace her.


Bumming Cassandra...

A fable in the modern days,
On the roads of a metropolis.
Wandering about in search of nothing,
Who’s she ? A myth from Greece.
Picking up words from dingy lanes,
She weaves a fresh folklore.
You might spot her in the midst of a crowd,
But for sure she’ll ignore.
Don’t disturb her,
Though she is not busy.
Hibernating in the crowd,
She’s meditating.
She is not a native of the city you live,
But she knows this place more than you can feel.



Baleful Cassandra...

Don’t trust her,
The muse called Cassandra,
A demoralizing soul, an eternal predator.
She’s a witch, will enchant your sense,
The poor soul poet will become her pet.
She’ll play to him that she loves…
The day will come and he’ll be downcast.
Save your soul poet!
Save your words!
She is a venomous angel,
A skylark from the fog.


Babbling Cassandra...

Frittering in darkness at temple corner,
She is the princess who foretells future.
Phoebus Apollo loved her once,
Breaching vow she invited his wrath.
Cursed that no one will ever heed,
She is a relic of an ignored heath.
But; she is Cassandra, babbling around,
In a fiery island she was found.
An alternative vision to know your words,
She is not a deity, an ill-omened trollop.