My Palace.........

Sitting in a comfortable room,
On a chair beside my Barbie doll window,
With the sun making my face aglow
And the moonlight making it bright,
I used to write poems of love and hope.
When I used to feel the hand of sadness closing in,
I used to rush into the arms that were always open for me.
I used to cry in them, complain in them,
Leave the weight of my heavy heart and again move in
My world, created with a rubber protection around me.
I used to bounce back into those warm and soft eyes,
Whenever, the evil or the harsh used to stare at me.
And then I used to again sit by my window,
Reminiscing about the shadow of darkness,
And write about the different shades of black.
I was wise then, maybe even understanding,
But never did I realize the magnitude of the world outside,
I used to look out of my windows,
And only see shadows,
Of the world beyond my own.
The one in which I lived and the one that I owned,
I was confronted by those shadows once in a while,
But was never consumed by them.
I did recognize the shades of dark,
But was never a part of them.
And then one day, the protection gave way and a crack appeared in my palace of glass.
I ran away to another room, but the mirage broke apart.
It gave way to another world, a much larger one,
I realized I had many elements which were combined into one.
All my pieces fell apart and they created their own world in many different parts.
I found a new palace in various places,
The walls of which were painted in different colors,
Colors which were not blue or black,
But a blackish blue and a bluish black.
They reflected differently in different lights,
Sometimes glowing in the harsh sun,
Sometimes becoming dark and dank
and losing all its shine in the rain and the dark.
But it was still a palace nevertheless,
One in which I grew much bigger than my height,
And shrank smaller than I ever might,
Have done in my glass palace.
I am still creating such palaces,
In different worlds that I live in,
They are still made of glasses,
But glasses that are much stronger.
Although they are delicate and might be broken by the stone of grief,
But my hands of faith will make them again,
And my mind will always go back to the pages of memories written in that palace,
And will remember the time spend, however brief.