Purge

Apparently time doesn’t work for me the same way it does for you. It has been so many weeks… (months?!) since I last posted something here.

Well, four months (has it really been four months?) for you, isn’t four months for me! Of course, the time is to blame. Not me. Never me. :D

Okay, now that I’ve had time to think about it, maybe me.. ;)


A pleated skirt in navy blue.
Downcast eyes. Not a clue.
Somebody’s baby girl. An innocent.
Looked down upon, she knew not why.
Too young for the truth, but not a lie?

A few more years, a different view.
Hating someone she barely knew.
A young girl. An innocent.
With her head held high, she now walked,
To speak her mind she never balked.

She stepped inside the towering walls
Unable to tell what’s true; what’s false.
A fine woman. An innocent.
Her heart clenched at the wretched sight.
Blinded by the dawning light

She looked into the eyes of an innocent.
The prisoner, her father, an innocent.
A sobbing woman filled with guilt,
She fell at the feet of an innocent,
Was absolved by the touch of the innocent.

- Arya


The thought of a child growing up not knowing why people treated her the way they did and then learning where her father was and why is what made me write this.

When she is old enough to understand she hears from everyone the kind of a man her father was and that he was to blame for her terrible childhood. When she pays him a visit, probably to tell him what she went through, she sees that she’s had it easy. Things aren’t always the way they seem to be.

Arya

A poet - A bookworm, definitely, a bookworm - A photographer - A simple person who loves music, making craft-y things - haunted by nightmares starring stairs without railings, spiders, snakes.

India