The Color Mélange

 

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Image source: eresaw.deviantart.com

In the dim light of the night
My window bleeds black, blue and grey.
The world, in the other end, a super-imposed medley.
My bare form, a silhouetted memoir, swooning slowly,
I lay, thickly drift, on the spears and barren thorns
Of my red. I descend upon the day’s end,
The red presses upon the bare night’s flesh,
A threat, an aberration, a desperation
Singing all alone, growing wild, and free.

My body breathes in vignettes and haikus
Trapped in cracked, ashen mirrors,
Red, the primordial burst screams,
Falters, dies out, slowly, surreptitiously.
Pink, the color of my labor, swelling,
Crashing against my womb,
Blue, the color of my dried up scars,
Scattered into dust; purple, the color of
The gaping hole where I thicken, and disintegrate.

In soft, little sips, the colors have floated around
Wicked lilies, pretty girls prancing,
Pining, tickling, toying around.
My window bleeds in the nameless darkness,
The rough silk of the night thumping, toxic, piercing.

The world in the other end burns slowly in the flames.
The colors, chiming, pirouette in the faint, flickering light.
I am loving the dead undone of my shringar
A dark brown, fading in the litter-laden night.

Copyright: Lopa Banerjee. March 17, 2015

 

The Revisiting

Notes for the readers: An elegy of a lost love, or a few lines dedicated to the wayward memories of a long lost relationship. A random love poem, yet again.

An old love flaunted itself in half-written letters.

An old love buried in the slippery sands of time.

An old love puffed fiercely, flashed sugary smiles,

Clenched at me tight, and loosened,

Cried in long, ragged sobs.

An old love finds me in smoke, sips of coffee and yawning.

An old love comes to visit me, his face ghostly and blurred.

I take him in and we begin to talk,

Greet each other in discreet, playful nods.

We talk in shadows and scribbling,

In warm monotones and the equation of rhetoric.

We’ve rubbed off awkward kisses, wayward fantasies

With the palm of our hands.

Our delicate, birdlike buffoonery slapped hard

By a slate of routine chores.

A scrapbook of lost words careen around the room.

My hands, stretch out to him in stray lines

Azure blue, green, purple shades of calf love.

Keystrokes of a lost harmony, fading, resounding,

Crossing paths in a dim, complicated dream,

Melting, wafting, diminishing again.

An old love is a long smear on my whiteboard face,

In twilight memories, summons me

In anonymous blinks and glittering.

I watch him from afar, lanky, white-haired and lost,

Leave the room with the faint odor of our used up days.