Circle of Power

A little bit of supernatural for today’s Three Line Tales

She was a sweet little girl who had always imagined her life would be perfect and filled with all things magical – a prince on a white horse and all things lovely.

Life had another plan, and as they say “It’s written” in the stars, for living in orphanages, to her foster mother’s cruelties, bullies at school and lack of love had taken away every inch of hope, except that of true love.

Therefore, when she gave it all to him and he broke her heart, she had no option but to give up the idea of magic and focus on witchcraft and today she stands on the sacrificial green circle of power – ready to sacrifice that jerk and gain her full powers as a witch.

 

  • Sneha Pathak (c)
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Living in Duality

A girl sits by the seaside,

Adding to the saltiness of the sea

Drop by drop.

Contemplating broken dreams and lost hope.

A photographer, with his lenses in position

Captures a picturesque shot.

In the viewer’s perception of beauty,

Sorrow somewhere got lost. 

Both of them living their truth,

One sees beauty, one dwells in sorrows at that moment,

Each living their own version of the truth

Oblivious, to the other’s perception of reality,

Together, they coexist in this indifferent duality.

 

© Sneha P [ Rights Reserved ]

 

 

 

The cruel side of beauty

As I walked through the maze of wealth and power,

Glancing through screams trapped in glass cases.

Ivory, they called it.

Cruelty, I knew it.

My eyes marveled at the beauty of the sculptures

My mind, however, questioned this culture.

One where we take something

That in its nature is beautiful without interference

And destroy it to create something of relevance.

This ivory from those creatures innocent,

Stolen from them for our merriment.

They took Gods gift, in its form primal

And hit it repeatedly to make a stone idol.

An idol of worship, nevertheless

But humanity was lost in the process.

Now when I see these works of art,

I will see the creatures, at the very  start

When people hear prayers and hymns,

I will hear the pain and screams.

 

© Sneha P [Rights Reserved 2019]

 

 

 

Moments of Bliss

Soft lapping of waves on the beach,

Crisp winds whispering secrets each.

The sound of crisp paper being turned,

Blissful moments on the porch, very dearly earned.

The soft texture of grass under your feet,

The warm taste of hot chocolate on a winter night, oh so sweet.

The crackling of paper as you unwrap a present,

The fresh blooming primrose and their beckoning scent.

Waking up to mornings with hot tea and someone to hold close,

Cold evenings and warm winter clothes.

A few moments of bliss to count on your finger tips,

Of poetry like this, rolling off your lips.

 

(c) Sneha P [Rights Reserved]

A lost fight

On a cold dark night,

A tiny lone candle fights.

To slay the darkness

To spread out the light.

She had always won against soft breezes,

But her spirit grows weak as the cold increases.

The wind is a fearsome opponent

The candle grows weak and despondent.

As the darkness begins to take over the room,

The candle envies the light of the moon.

For no winds could put it out, on most days

She desperately tried to hold on to its ray.

Its tears trickle over its body shyly

It’s spirit dying away, slowly.

They tried to shade her light by their two hands

But she knew, a chance she did not stand.

As they struggled to keep her lit with all their might,

She exhaled her last words slowly,

Sometimes it’s okay to embrace the darkness of the night.

 

© Sneha P [Rights Reserved] 2018.

 

 

 

Silver Linings

In this solitary dark night

The fire that burns her world

Appears to her a ray of light.

The knives of the words that cut her heart,

Seem to be the music that makes silence depart.

The monsters that haunt her sleep,

Are the only people who’s company she keeps.

For her youthful feeble eyes,

Never recognize their lies.

When in her heart something is amiss,

She tells herself ignorance is bliss,

Imprisoned by this prison of toxic love,

She calls it a home, lucky to have a roof above.

(c) Sneha P [Rights Reserved]

Familiar Shackles

Tiny dolls, living in an illusion,

Living life in utter confusion.

Wake up. Work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

Stuck in a game, they cannot beat.

Lost in this maze,

Yet, some think they are in a race.

Like puppets they are controlled,

Their ignorance is their blindfold.

They lie to themselves of a meaningful existence

Never truly realizing their true essence.

They dream of a better tomorrow,

One that will free them of their sorrow.

One of excitement, hope and dreams

But they are grasping at the seams.

For they do not really want an adventure,

Just some moments of meaningless pleasure.

They find familiarity in the monotony

Yet, they long for a better life, what an oddity.

Their hands feel bare without the shackles of routine

Yet, they dream of what could have been.

They find their solace in the known

Never venturing out of the comfort zone.

They hold on to what is toxic,

For fear of returning home with empty pockets.

Unable to cast their fears aside,

They never truly see what was on the outside.

 

©Sneha P [Rights Reserved 2018]