Mother’s Day




She dreamt of the places unseen..
She wove wings into her dreams..
She was beginning to flap her wings..
Expecting to fly higher and higher
Within her ambitions raged like a fire..
And then he ushered himself into her life 
with a handful of roses,
Oblivious to the thorns that 
hideously came along in their perfect alibi
For her there was nothing else
that cud more gratify..
But with the thorns of the lovely roses
She was killed..
Her soul out of her body spilled..
To fill her body with the kind of soul 
He wanted his wife to possess..
With the same identity 
But a personality to suppress..
A breathing corpse she was reduced to…
Meaning of love she had to reassess
To be a puppet in his hands,
Reminding others that she exists,
Dedicating her life to live his desire,
Feeling content in what he wanted to acquire,
Considering the reason for her birth,
Was to bear his children, look after his family,
See her future amidst the walls of the galley,
Lighting everyone’s dreams with her pyre!!!
(Posthumously notes on her sacrifices flow in the pages
of literary pieces on every Mother’s day)



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