Poetry and Prose Collection XXII

Miha Dalaya
2 min readOct 6, 2023

*all writing pieces originally from Instagram @mi.haloes*

Photo by Madhu Shesharam on Unsplash

I peer out of the window,
x-ray visioning your appearance through a non-existent reality and crowd of commuters.
People and SUVs pass,
The suits and blazers that fizzle by remind me that I could be them one day.

But, here I — hopelessly — am.
Window-watching out of a glass cage with an imagination that is far more cultivated than my own composure.
Heart-steady truths shatter my only escape plan from you;
wishing that maybe someone should have told me to keep the blinds shut.
(2023, Sept 16)

The weeds that grow through the cracks in my heart resonate and shift with my emotional oceans;
my waterfalls and river currents reflect the waltz of the sunshine and all its ecliptic memories.

In an unforeseen irony, my soul lies here drenched in the streets and homes that once meant something in the past;
now emptied and perished with lost laughter.
A saddened ending rushes out with the sensations of a long-awaited high.

With the flood of my thoughts and the riptides of an unforeseen salvation,
I have outgrown my flowers.
A little tired and teary-eyed,
I suppose it is time to water my weeds instead.
(2023, Oct 4)

Photo by Michelle on Unsplash

“flowers/olden tragedy”
The flowers of the olden tragedy cower under the new-founded bouquets;
churning with the urge of an impossible evolution engraved in the washed-out sand.

A delicate cry,
a forbidden truth;
a flowering causality dies upon the
ember-engulfed horizon.

The petals of the olden tragedy cower under the new-founded bouquets;
blooming into a new age,
designed by envy.
Reborn into pure poison and venom.
(2023, Oct 5)

“bone china”
The gifted bone china lies on the far south counter, collecting dust and sunlight as the hours pass.
From sunset to sunrise,
it’s an everyday affair.

The hollowness in the apartment aerates as the seconds bring in silence from the crashes and burns of a once-predetermined fairytale;
a diluted form of a potent fantasy that was destined for carnage.
With bruises and aches that align the ventricular walls, the descending of the building elevator chimes with the bells of a lost war.
Surrendering to the forced peace that was never wished for,
maybe the battle and scars are better left unremembered;
allowing our bone china-built history to collect dust as the hour passes,
someday fated to shatter.
(2023, Oct 6)



Miha Dalaya

I am Amisha Dalaya! You may have caught on… my pen name is “Miha”. (mihaloes.my.canva.site/)