Dusted White


Flowers cannot hurt me

They sing a tune I recognize

A melody, a lingering scent with a crescendo

A rise that is beautiful

A fall that is devastating

They take me on a journey I wouldn’t repent

Flowers cannot hurt me

But you can

The flaming bully charged at me

Flung those flailing arms around my waist

And I was falling, expedited

But there was something on the other side of the wake

When the bodies were burnt and my phoenix reborn

You stood there

Dusted white

 

My world was shades of sepia

Pulling at the string of truth

Through a broken land of halfhearted promises

But survival had been born out of something primitive inside

And I was broken in the shortest span

The fall couldn’t have hurt me

But you can

The leitmotif of my hysteria

Was understood by no one but you

The strangest nights were born from it

And we began to question every hue

But you stood there

Dusted white

 

I was tired of the glow

Wishing those embers would die down

So I could be washed onto the shore in peace

A peace borne out of something exotic

But something I couldn’t reach

Something that wouldn’t hurt me

The way you can

So I started to sing a blue song

The melody carried in the air

Spreading like a sugar cube sunk in a diabetic’s tea

Closing in deliberately

Until you stood there

Dusted white

 

The signals are coming in

But my pattern is a study in contrast

A break in the way lives flow

In the way colors attempt to fill in the blanks

This war couldn’t have hurt me

But you most certainly can

I built layers out of thin air

Conjured up a world that is choking me

Its nasty fingers closing in on my throat

The price I pay for these thoughts

Is standing in front of me

Its you- dusted white

 

White flowers of Osteospermum ecklonis
 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Break the dam, let this river flow, don’t hold back, don’t let my silences define where I am.

I feel caged at times; like there is a beast inside me. A beast pouring colors and emotions and passion into the universe but  unable to find all the necessary expressions it needs to explain all the hues that flow inside it.

It makes me want to scream at times, it makes me want to break out of the constrictions of a body so earthly bond, so unaware, so limited in senses.

Only the dimensions a soul can see are visible to me through poetry.

It is as though I am in a close dark room with minimum lighting and through a tiny, narrow slit in the wall I can see the world outside and that is the only way I have of accessing it, all others being close to me unless I can vaporize through the crack and reach the other side.

Misery is born out of the things I see through that crack. Things I cannot even describe or understand because everything I can remember and everything  I actually know is inside the room, leaving me demented to describe the things outside.

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