Only one way to blossom

Only one way to blossom

In this globe blossoming is a fruitful enchantment,

Everyone wants to blossom,

Even if it is not within the reach of their accomplishment.

Every blossom in this world doesn’t bloom because it is a blossom,

But, because it has strived to make that fulfillment,

The ‘plants’ goes through a manner that is gruesome,

‘Water’ from ‘Land’ and ‘Air’ from fresh airy bands with some sunlight and chemical refreshment.

And at last with some persistence, a bud then blossoms,

A blossom is born, Redemption

A Blossom!

Followed by Regiments of appreciators and men who often like condemnation,

The gravity of being a blossom is next realized,

The ‘barbarians’ fall like prickly pebbles that don’t make ‘trebles’,

But rupture out unspoken, for it is their duty, to make one ‘blossom’,

Then one realize there is no short cut around, only one way to blossom,

Is to pass the way that is gruesome!!  

The Extremity Pathway

The Extremity Pathway

Oh! Extremity pathway,

Give the kind the extremity of mind,

But extremities to emotions?

Is it precise?

Such a feeble kind is made strong and wild,

Oh! Extremity pathway is it precise?

Happiness to extreme!

Sorrow to extreme!

Anger to a farther extreme!

And hope?

These all lead one to a poignant extremity,

Particularly the one that no one can engrave,

To some degree it’s wonderful to have them.

But to extremity!

They may turn too wild

But that is what extremity is “Wild”

The Blazing Algorithm

The Blazing Algorithm

Every conflagration in this world is supposed to burn,

And get burned.

The woods of the fire or the fern,

Are supposed to burn,

But there are some logs which burn with patience,

They are the foundation woods.

They associate together to get burned, only then if they are their,

When the conflagration starts,

Through a complex but therefore simple way of getting burned,

The various aspects combust but these at last,

The blue, the green and flushed yellow combine to blaze together,

The ferns then burn, twigs and sticks await their turn.

The flames blaze up and then comes the turn of the middle men,

They are one of the conspiracy lots,

Middle fuel that corrupts but maintains the blazing plot,

Then at last base is fumed, passing through that inferno,

These foundation associates are like sticky clots,

They support the configuration and then at last turn to Smokey float,

That’s pretty much like our life,

The termination of the feeble, the conflagration of middle strong,

And the blossoming of strong and rigid,

These rigid bodies produce more and then,

Burn down to be specters of their legacies,

This is the algorithm of every blaze a lot.

  

  

The Game of Legacy

The Game of Legacy

In my garden

There was a special tree,

 victim of struggle and trouble. 

One day I saw a huge cotton ball wedged to the tree,

As if it was trying to be free,

Next day there was another one,

Few days after I saw a little bird,

Soothing to feed its young one,

But at that time I didn’t knew!!

Facing countless flights and hell wind’s strike

It was just a solitary bird.

After some time I went near by the tree,

Between the soft roots of the young tree emerging from the branches,

I saw the bird feeding it’s young ones,

They were all grey and brown embedded in the flora crown.

I got up next day,

Came out to see the flora crown, but I saw that little bird,

Shielding the crown from the crying sky,

It was just one little bird doing all that,

Three weeks passed,,

Watching those puking young ones,

Their curls and feather grew.

Now they mewed more! Puked more!

They cried more, but it looked like they were getting bored.

Bored of being jewels of the crown.

I thought now they will flourish and nourish,

But I didn’t comprehend the supremacy of nature,

The bequest of that little bird,

Was there no more,

It left me to conjecture.

What happened to those little Jewels?

I only realized it after some time,

Those jewels were now polishers of ornaments,

Ornaments that were the legacy,

 Legacy of a mother lizard.

  This was the equilibrium of nature, the power to thrive

The bird always strived but,

The one who is feeble is for eternity, left behind!