But expressions triumphed over feeling of deprived

Distant were colors for those woeful eyes

However a feeling so vivid was there to suffice

Stars lit up in the mysterious sky

But such excitement immersed in her eyes

As if search only was desired by her sight

Such a feeling sustained vision of joy

Where darkness plunge into melting sky

Where glaciers melt into streams which never dry

A journey where birds fly through wide ranges

Is where she breaths air of freshness

Fallacies and deceit are alien for her

Instead blessings around her are like devotion for her

When night falls we ponder over dreams inside

Ignorant of rain which reveals outside

But ecstasy and joy is only prevalent in her eyes

She dares in the rain like maiden in full flight

It seems that her delight is beyond our conventions

In a moment of such delight she has visualized essence of heaven

But still we assume that she is ignorant and deprived

Though she flows like water which is purified

Like a twinkle in an eye

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood,
and I— I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Poem by Robert Frost, Published in 1920 in Volume ‘Mountain Interval’
(This is one poem i really like…)

and when she turns away in sorrow,
her face to the wall,
the celibate AC,
celebrates the moment,
in excitement, in vigor,
it revves up, becomes enticed,
beleagured it lets tumble
shooting forth from the wall,
all its spiced electric juices,
chilled but chaste,
they rush to the sighs,
she has sung into the dawn;

when she wails,
the pale white paint,
chips crackles and rips
breaking like branches
off the tree of ceiling:
the dampness to which they peel,
is from the humidity of her tears;
even though I like to believe
that water-stains brought their demise,
secretely I’ve known their pain.
The paint is skinned and flayed,
because it reacts to her exclaims;

when her silence hangs heavy,
the dreary house fears infinity,
cold invisible wraiths rumble,
and silent electric snakes
whisper, slithering uninvited;
and death falls like dew,
and breath becomes a recluse,
and fear reigns in the stillness,
and all this
leaving the TV
no choice but to scream
out loud
intense
extreme,
until volume loses it voice,
and its throat goes hoarse,
it becomes white noise,
and black and white splotches of snow,
pleading for her to bring back life,
for her to once again please,
speak
please.