A Child's Treehouse

By Lakshita Dhiman

A bohemian shaping her world

hammering a nail, encouraging it, and herself.

an escape from the authenticity, the realism,

a run to it, dissolves all the woe.

The scent of wood blows away the darkness,

that rested below the woods.

the stairs climbing up, drags the misery down,

with each step.

Elysian, it felt,

selcouth it was!

ephemeral reverie,

couldn’t cherish it for long.

Since once the feet step outside their lucent life,

shoulders feel heavy.

Lack of paroxysm and ataraxia,

and when the tears become the blood of the soul,

a lacuna in heart,

Since the home I wanted, became a place I lost.

whelving everything, deep enough, to not lose control,

when my mind give up.

Fortunately, I did lose control,

when my feel could no longer stay still and I couldn’t think straight.

All I wanted was an embrace of that place,

absquatulating me, wanted no regrets, as when you know you’ll live only once,

you’ve got none to care.

My spine had a frisson,

as I climbed up the weak ladder, to the mass of wood.

All my eyes saw was a crooked structure,

but my soul breathed as if standing in a mansion.

I heard a familiar aubade, and my eyes got filled with nostalgia,

I wonder, how something so tiny, so ordinary,

could acquire a huge lot of someone’s life.

perhaps because, it’s one’s own soul that finds the place,

that ring the bells.

My gaze wandered around, astonished by how an immature bohemian,

created a place that’ll heal my soul and weave my heart.

By Lakshita Dhiman