Paintings on the wall,
Paintings of the world.
She hung them on the wall,
With utmost love and care.
Her mother had told her –
“You’ll be happy, mark my words.”
She swallowed back a few tears,
Happiness was not to be hers.
Venting out through silly art,
Filling up the void -
She had none but herself to blame
Choosing the fire, not the soil.
It was too early to leave,
Too late to pick up the pieces -
She breathed in the poisonous air
In the world of champagne and air-kisses.
