With my frail limbs clipped with the remnants of my rugged skin
the ashes rising from my chest
my heart, a globe of fire.
My toes untouched, bare, and lily-like
embellished with dew.
With the oceanic hopes wintering on my frigid, pale face
turned vacant and shallow, dissolved in air
A twig falls, another twig falls again
and a bird loses its nest
rebuilds and rebuilds.
Search for the zeal in my petal skin, still alive,
a human knows the art of surviving in the name of death.
The ants will still accompany me.
The birds will still find home in my garden.
With the wishes made on shooting stars gleaming in my eyes
fallen, broken, dejected.
And the agony comforting my flesh,
the rage, the storm, the chaos.
I wish it rains on my funeral
to subside it all.
Shreya Sharma is a Business Research professional working in India. She has been published in a couple of poetry anthologies published by Blue Rose Publishers and contributed to digital literary magazines such as Indian Periodical, Calm Down and Freeverse. She loves reading books, writing poems and sipping coffee.