a poem by Vinaya Jayant Godbole, India

The Pragmatist

She's no loner, but she doesnt have an owner
Here's the story of how she became,
From a free cheerful butterfly to monotonous, tame.

Dancing eyes and the curve of lips rose,
Merry-merry laughter and a sharp straight nose.

A mane of sunlight caught at dusk,
Of honey, amber and of rust.

Peaches of cream n' milk below deep pools,
A gaze of such intent that heats and cools.

A bundle of gentleness and fiery energy,With innocense, inquisition and insatiety.

Brave and strong, intriguing each trait,
Every soul longed to meet The Passionate

The Passionate was she known by then,
Until she met a Loner.

The Loner had a gift, an element very rare,
Where other mares pranced, just to look and stare.

The Passionate caught his eye, a pearly glistening blue,
He held his breath for long,but still did not pursue.

He waited and watched with patience galore
To test and trap, The passionate into the lure.

Step by step he progressed,with selection and choice
The moisture of his words quenched the thirst of her own voice

She thought she was in love when he satisfied his desire,
And perished her innocent beauty to smithereens dire.

Long after she realized that the line on his face was a smirk, not a smile.
She cried in pain and agony when she came to know she was used all this while.

It took her years to capture a life into her living,
She cut out her heart and threads of emotion and giving.

The life in her beauty had diminished by afar,
For her innocense and love were bruised with everlasting scars.

She altered her way from The Passionate,The Pragmatist she became forever.

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