Father

A scavenger of the silent grave,
Who shuns the field and honest plow,
To exhume the ghosts that none would save
And bind them to a living brow.

They do not plant, they do not build,
But thrive where ancient timbers crack,
Their hollow, hungry coffers filled
By breaking every quiet back.

A parasite in silk and pride,
Who finds a feast in old despair,
And lives upon the tears they've pried
From wounds that were no longer there.

The Weight of Flight

Like the silver silk of a dandelion's crest,

How many seeds ache to flee the nest?

To drift on the whim of a wandering breeze,

And wake in a garden of distant ease.

But the heart of the seed is heavy and deep,

A burden of mass that the wind cannot sweep.

Where wings should unfurl, the gravity clings,

Stilling the spirit before it takes wings.

Are we not the same in our tethered design?

With souls built for soaring, yet destined to pine.

For though our desires may reach for the stars,

The weight of our world is the cage and the bars

മുത്ത്

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           എന്ന് ഒരു കുഞ്ഞല പാറു

My Soul

As the silver moonbeams wrap the sky,
Even the stars ache for your radiant grace.
While sands whisper secrets to the silent shell,
Are you not the soul-treasure hidden in my depths?

With a smile as fragile as a bead of dew,
Why retreat to your ivory shrine, veiled from my sight?
Though I brush your walls like a soft, fleeting ripple,
I long to dissolve into you—
To flow as a restless tide and wake as the pearl in your heart. 🐚✨