Muses

10. The Being

It is said that nothing and no one is perfect,
No matter how close they get, There is always one fragment,
Of some unconsciousness,
Which is not perfect.
He was the same.
For brilliance, he was the other name.
He was bashful to all who praised him.
His bespectacled beauty shown interim,
He was brainy, but never bumptous,
He wasn't bony, nor was he bulbous.

He was bewitching, yet bleary.
You could expect them to be blithe and bleak equally.
And somewhere along the river of happiness,
He trod a parallel path of eternal pain so endless.
He was boundless, but he was burnt, just like desert sands are. He was burdened, and being brittle, he broke when things went too far.

But there was something about him,
Even when he was left broken and bereft in the dim.
He still held his head high,
He never let anyone see the part of him which was ready to cry.
He blenched at the thought of someone seeing right through,
Not because of his shortcomings, but because he never trusted anyone new,
To show them his battle scars,
Which he had hidden from the world and come so far.

Even though he was on the brink of being broken again,
He never stopped being true to himself or his friends.
He was someone they could bank upon,
One who would be there for them, all along,
In storm or sadness,
In light or darkness.
He was the evening breeze, Which brewed a bottomless broth of bafflement,
For his beloved too,
As it was the only way he knew.

He was burdened, and being brittle he used to break on more than one occasion,
But there was something about the way he was broken, that made the cracks look like perfection.
Yes, he was boundless and he was burnt,
Just like desert sands are, I have learnt.
For to try, he was willing,
For to me, he was beguiling,
Beguiling like the brightest star above the darkest sea,
That was ever witnessed by the galaxy.