A Sight for the Sore Eyes

As I stood beneath its boughs,
I wondered about its violent expression.
Flowers scarlet casting a scarlet shadow.
A spot of red amidst the dying green.
A dash of colour stolen
from the mellowed mornings and the balmy evenings.
But the dying leaves fed the thriving summer;
a precipitating summer which precipitated death.
Creeping low amidst the mourners
-a murderer amidst dead leaves and grass-
it crept along the stem,
slithered along the boughs.
Deadly fangs poisoning the life
in future and present equally.
But the blossoms of that Gulmohar held on.
A sight dearer than life itself.
Truly, a sight for the sore eyes.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A Forest

Its not a sanctuary that I want, a forest it is that I desire. Not the manicured lawns and the trimmed hedges. But the growth that is wild, a form of limitless forms. Roots that spill over from the sidewalk and break the monotony of direction. Yes, a living, breathing forest in my city that chokes the roads; breaking their will to go anywhere to let live the paths that go nowhere. Those strangler figs, that have a foothold in the sacred spaces of life the roots that hang from high rises threatening to strangle the living room. The leaves, ominously closer to the sunlight, than the windows that feign the delight. This murderous nightsky, this perennial scavenger of stars, this inverted cityscape, deviant reflection of our mind, illuminated but devoid of any light. In here shall a forest take root snubbing the citylights, letting the darkness prevail and the stars shine bright.
Read more

Loneliness

On this endless street of noise where silence and blood jostle thorugh, sweat and smoke mingle, debris of lost love still lingers. I am a "lot of noise" in my head, horns blaring and myself. A "lot of smoke" in my lungs I am, sooty anger and desperation. A lonely pariah he was. A silent spec on that street of noise. His peaceful sleep is what I stole and since then have stored it in the lonely alleys of my heart.
Read more

Anatomy of Dreams

Somewhere, in the jaundiced morgue of the night, usually awaits sleep- its grubby hands ready to autopsy my calloused dreams. Lodged in the viscera, spring is in fetters, of saris, of skeins of colours, buried inside a barren closet, never to spread its iridescent wings. Gothic raiments of cities hide alleys of gossip (on which we will never loiter) and the twisted arcades of wasting idioms remain sewn to the sepulcher of flesh. The insipid slime of sunlight denude the coarse cinders of spices from my skin. And the winds shed the ruins of melodies which you had sown in me.
Read more