‘I held your then little hand and tried to lead, but I kept losing the way.’

‘It’s ok, Mama. You really were too young to know.’

‘And you know, I really thought I was doing what was best.’

‘I know, Mama. And you were doing your best.’

‘But you came out fine.’

‘Fine like you, Mama.’

The poetess and the paintbrush

Under the silver moon half eaten by the darkness,

a cup of warm tea in her hand, and a paintbrush in the other, a white canvas awaits

her back to pen and paper

tears fall down her cheeks.

She that writes

By day, she devours every sound, sight and sense around her.

By night, she pours her soul onto her writing instrument. A catharsis entertained by the dim light of her bedside lamp.

And then she sleeps.