The Black
Hoops of the anxious soul are hanging in the most voracious way.I hear thunder, rustling silence.This is my first phase, anger.
The intimidating red eyes. The eyes of satan, they say. The faded shades of grey, charcoal, as my wrist remain crossed.
I put my wrist on top of my forehead.The sagging forehead.
The conundrum geography exists right here, sharply ecstatic.
Hot wax, profound depth, a lingering cold wave.
A dark, gruesome heart.
A ghost- like canopy of thoughts.
The Red.
This is a melancholic phase.
A lugubrious red sorrow shining on my pinky finger, the tales of the darkly skinned elbow.
the bends on my skin, my crooked skin.
the way sky forms uneven patterns,
leaving us bewildered of the richness, the great creations.
All I see is complexities, the bars of a collision, gateway of numbness.
A stoppage.
The vague dreams.
Now the heart is crooked.
The Grey.
A wave of cornered soul resists like the last droplets of rain.
Tiring yellow pages, not desiring to be read further.
Monotonous paths, monotonous tones, monotonous human.
I kiss my pain in a breezing way, hugging my own doleful pits.
the screams forms chains of comfort, the sky is indicating a pattern,
the crookedness is recovering into a deeper hole
name it comfort?Name it a bliss. Oh!Don’t name it.
As it’s still a vivid hole, murky,
dark, distilled in my conscious, collided with my mindset,
it’s grey here, my palm is feverish
my eyelids are the coherence of deeper shades of grey
this is the phase,
this is the ultimate revival, mystical.
Forget me not in the sacrosanct lie of your humour
