She

Poem by Vanshika Srivastava

They say it’s damn hope
alive and alight
like that twinkle that spins on the
chandelier, like the one in a child’s eyes.

Then there are those
too eager to wallow in spite
twisting and turning the knits
of sheer joy,
What once was called being a child.

When a candle burns too much, too close
Comfort is found in blowing it out
And little do they know,
It’s the fever of what was once a dream
now the ghost of how youthful one was.

We lie and lie and lie
We hold our truth in our apathy
And now the mirror always shatters in her eyes
Bespoke are the words,
A secret, sworn to be taken to her grave
Laced under the shadows of what was and has been.
Who?
To whom was the endearment of “she?”
bestowed? She was there for enough for all
and nothing but a grand fall.