The Deer

By Amrusha Acharya

Breathe, just like the star does,

But, does it truly?

Why does it fall then, if not for its woes.

Dimmed is the sky in your eyes,

Your frozen fingertips against mine,

The restless heartbeats 

Have now withered to mere mayflies.

If thou art the flame,

Then I'm the moth,

Unafraid of burning,

I'd gamble away in this game.

Legends speak of souls being bound,

Yet I'm a lost butterfly, 

Estranged from the nectar 

That is yet to be found.

Your lips that ushered life in me,

Lie bloodless, poisoned–

Yet sweet, like spring's honey.

I see you in shadows of mine,

And not in mirrors

Because you were never next to me,

Always forever lingering sublime.

I will not bind you to me,

For what has been done cannot be undone.

I'm undone by you, 

As the moth is to the flame.

As Icarus flew to his bane,

The sun swallowing his wings,

Drowning in a sea of tattered feathers.

When the deer loses its antlers,

It runs away, galloping into the plains

As the rain pitters and patters,

The dream of a thousand days shatters.

My muse is aflame, 

Yet all I've never known is your name.

Heart burning, fingertips like a sprite.

Lips like nectar,

Your eyes open like the day,

Your lashes, the night.

Tell, tell me,

Will I ever find you if I know your name?

Will I ever find you,

The deer that causes me pain?

Passion is destruction. 

Man is passionate, and that is why he is destructive.

By Amrusha Acharya