Encounter a poet outside his poems

The duality of existence encapsulates the brevity of strife,

Often called a dreamer, I envisioned what horizons that strayed afar looked like.

Too much into my mind, a lone wolf they announced,

As unfathomable to them I was, in growing in my loneliness, the comfort I found.

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Mellowing the beauty of the sombre night, nature’s lullaby embraced my skin,

To encounter a poet outside of his poetry, you must look within.

Squandering across the many muses that a poet writes,

His truth oozes like sunshine when the sight of his love meets his eyes.

I beckon to be a poet who in the merriment of melancholy once found her muse,

A home to breathe in, an abode where the war between my heart and mind found its truce.

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He was the moon that adorned the sky and I was a star that admired his beauty,

But alas the syllables recorded in the treacherous moment knew their duty.

In the silent embrace of courage, I endeared to profess the affection that I bore,

To hold him in my arms, to vow to the timeless views of ‘him and me that we swore,

Alas, words render deeper than daggers could ever try,

He proclaimed me to be unworthy of his love, as I stood behind in silence,

With no tears left to cry.

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I often pondered over the notion of death being a painful truth and life being a beautiful lie,

Convulsed with numbness of pain, I whispered this is what falling out of love feels like.

The rhetorical question of survival still hovers its essence over me,

Am I a poem or a poet who seeks redemption from her poetry?

-Hridya