poetry is the echo of all of my tragedies & wonders that once fell upon unwilling ears and after much afterthought, were written down for the world to read yet i fear they still might go unseen.

every piece that i write is not about me yet it has parts of myself hidden away along the lines and in between verses; and never is any poem about one thing only- it is about a million things and the ones that find the most of them are a fortunate breed.

every writer makes pure dust and bones seem more than what it is; and i don't know if i could ever do that but these pages are the only place i could find a voice in the most mystical of ways. and it is an unfortunate addiction.

i made paper skies in my own mind and there are days when the sun doesn't rise here, and the moon doesn't show; sometimes the wind doesn't breathe through and the stars don't glow, and those are the days i find it hardest to pen my thoughts in a way i want them to be read and so i don't write. instead, i sit and wonder what else could i do to fight away this war of mine.

and as ironic as it may be, the answer is right what i am doing now- inking away insecurities and doubts. i find the feeling, the aftertaste to be the sweetest of all.

with this, i am so grateful that anyone would ever even read what i've written; with precautions or on a whim, with love or with rage, i am so grateful is the least i can say.

❝𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐜❞ has now come to an end. i started this collection on november 15th 2020 and today 20th of february 2021, after 25 pieces, it has become whole.

thank you so much for joining me as we stepped into the rustic, eager, windermere library and i hope you enjoyed the stories this place had to tell.

yours truly,

m.h.

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❝i bade my heart build

these poor rhymes,

it worked at them, day out, day in,

building a sorrowful loveliness,

out of battles of old times.❞

-wb yeats.

☾︎ ☽

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