…hold those flowers for me, said my past,

colourful, scented, beautiful but still dead,

are you breathing? asked my past,

mangled and seething in agony and despair,

hope, is that your only weapon?

I looked for that answer in a machine,

faith, isn’t that the base of your heart?

with cracks of sins,

still held by my good deeds, surely scanty

did you find god?

I guess so,

I was told he is staring at me,

but still hiding, playing that game called life,

do you believe in love,

don’t know, but I am afraid of that angel in face of a ghost.

…am I of no importance? yelled my past,

I smiled,

the good isn’t coming back,

and the bad will always haunt me,

but there is a light, a ray of sustenance for my soul,

looking at these flower I am holding,

learning with every wave of the ocean,

feeding my curiosity to find my existence,

to claim my part,

In fact, to play my part,

but I assure, I am not in the control,

I am still broken, looking for answers,

and dear past,

you only have questions to spare…

Love, Masoom

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