Field of Thorns

This is to all the women out there. A dashing fashion icon in teens, who invests painstaking effort to do her eyebrows right, spend hours meditating in-front of wardrobes to pick out the perfect outfit for the evening, work out rigorously to etch stunning curves into their bodies...Are you the same now...or will you be the same after a few decades? Would you love yourself as much?...Just remember, for a woman, true redemption lies in her own self alone.

                                             

Lost she was, amidst the brown and grey,

The harsh grey of the mist that hung, limp and forlorn,

The slick brown of the thorns that leered at her from where they lay,

Hope dwindling with every step, not knowing where, she walked on.

A bitter smile twisted her parched lips,

that had once been bewitching to behold, rouged with care,

as she recalled, wiping a stray tear, with her finger-tips,

how this cursed plot had fascinated her, drawing her close, letting her in…Oh! It was, but a     snare!

The fascination had begun when she discovered herself anew,

The bland olive of her skin turning a startling bronze, glistening with sheen,

Flattering curves crawling into places, once straight and lean,

Her cheeks filling out, holding up two almonds of eyes that slew mortal hearts, not just a few!

With wits sharper than a scimitar, fresh out of forge,

her bold tongue battling for a no lesser place,

she had been a haunt where pride chose to lodge,

her whole life a pleasant daze.

A wonderland of poppies this had seemed,

As she bound her life with her chosen other.

In bright sunshine, future had gloriously gleamed,

Until the other had taken to cause bother.

Scars peeled afresh before they even healed,

Blinding pain shooting up at nights,

Her once-proud heart fractured as she kneeled,

Her poppies withered away, one at a time, at his slights.

She stumbled on through the thorns, tired and worn,

Until she saw something so strange that she stopped,

It’s yellow, a stark contrast to the brown fields of dread and scorn,

There it was, a single poppy, she had once dropped.

She picked it up and eyed at it with a bewilderment she could barely cope,

Crushed but faintly aglow with life, it sat on her bruised palm,

Her whirling mind then went still, turning eerily calm,

“A speck of life!”, she smiled…there was still hope!