Cherry lips gazed up at a lilac sky,
Intoxicated and bright and purified;
She walked in like heaven on her feet,
Doused in the perfume of her good deeds.
She was her own hurricane and storm,
Invincibly destructing shallow norms;
With kindness and strength times thrice,
She raised her own stalwart paradise.
The old folks claimed she’d need more mortals,
To keep her paradise hers and phenomenal;
Yet she painted her chest with pouring confidence,
But that over poured and turned to arrogance.
Ions passed but she relentlessly stood,
Kept rising from the ashes of her burnt wood;
Like a lone wolf braving the snow and rain,
Seldom pausing to be swept or saved.
But, we know how the gruelling times play,
As they pretend to be permanent scars to stay;
And so the cathartic days finally ceased,
With new beginnings waiting to be seen.
Instinctively, she woke up to stride and battle,
Only to witness peace around without any rattle;
So overjoyed to have survived all dark nights,
Now, she craved to share her empowering light.
But, over a lifetime of trooping in solitude,
Left her hollow under her dress suit;
The clock struck already twelve past midnight,
Yet she’s still staring at her unopened bottles of wine.
With a searing desire to rewind her time,
She gawked at her reflection unrecognised;
Although she sat on the throne she won over;
But who’d protect her heart when it’d need cover?
It dawned in how strategies of success failed her soul,
Defeated by herself, her paradise trembled to fall;
With nobody to share her victory hard fought,
She became a spectator of her paradise lost.
By Daya Streya, for the Trans Solidarity Fundraiser