A Woman’s Ache Is Her Own

A woman’s ache is her own

It’s the length and breadth of her offerings

It is a silent night embedded in the arms of sunshine

It is the end of words trapped in dictionaries

Sometimes she sees an illusion, sometimes she sees a mirage-

a life unfolding in the heartbreaks of a divine entourage

Words become whispers, whispers become flights

The hell is a lonely place beyond her eyesight

A woman’s ache is a splendid gift to mankind

Her emptiness is the globe, her sanctity is the paradise

Days that dawn and nights that recede get lost in the footsteps of time

She has no home, her house is in the pastures of Adelphi

Her music reverberates in failed empires of Alexandria

Her laughter becomes a chorus in the oracles of Greece

Men move in shadows, minions of a heightened fight

But a woman breathes the colours of flying kites

A woman’s ache is her own

She has navigated centuries to be somebody in her body

Her heart is the corridor of forgotten songs

Her face is the eclipse of a long-lost spring

She knows what she wants but she does what she can’t

Rivers, seas, oceans break into waves in the palms of her awakening

She cradles despair standing at the gates of Persephone

Mornings come and go, nights burn in candles, slow

The world trudges along limping on broken feet

The Mecca of her dreams is plagued by diabolical stings

The Medina of her hope is trapped in theorems of mundane things

A woman’s ache is her own

The world doesn’t understand one alphabet of it

She writes verses, she paints pictures, she sings

Her god is elusive, her prayers are private musings

They say her heart has turned to stone

They don’t know that a woman’s ache is her own. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

A punctuation between your sighs.

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