Its funny how a single colour
can evolve with a shade
deeper than the rest.
you dip one finger into a pot of black
and in that single,
gratifyingly slow,
dramatic instant,
the view shifts.
the virgin blue.
centuries of mistrust and betrayal
lies sunken lower than the bottom of a barge.
reborn,
history repeats itself in those softly unspoken whispers
etched on your back.
stained with the moss of
"a hundred sordid images".
a wine red sliced deeper
slower
achingly more mottled than all the rest
it bubbles beneath
the cold sheet of iced blue.
stained with the moss of
"a hundred sordid images".
a wine red sliced deeper
slower
achingly more mottled than all the rest
it bubbles beneath
the cold sheet of iced blue.
the boat sails.
the wire is drawn.
the bottles capped.
"because it dripped down the sides ".
"my family portrait".
"I didnt have a sharper brush".
the wire is drawn.
the bottles capped.
"because it dripped down the sides ".
"my family portrait".
"I didnt have a sharper brush".
3 comments:
i cant understand a word of it.
i didn't read the last three lines. and i am morbid?? you're just more subtle and hence it has more of an impact. i will use the clichéd "nice" to describe this.
Why am i seeing echoes of Arundathi Roy in this particular one? this is the path of daggers, where every word is a metaphor waiting to ambush me!!
awesomely written...
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