The lost Self
The girl who was once so bubbly,
Who used to speak whatever she felt,
Now she’s like a heated, silent noon
Where no one dares to peep into her soul.
She who was once an amber fountain,
Who could imagine a wilderness of imagery—
How did this soul of meadows
Turn into a garden of thorns?
She who could even write a world,
Whose mighty pen held the colors of a rainbow,
Now, in the spur of a moment,
Has lost all her brightness.
A soul of artistry, abandoned
Under the weight of duties and burdens.
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