Sunday, April 29, 2012

Coloured fingers

With the colours on my fingers, painting the winds,
Frozen at the brim of the abyss, shining and brittle,
All the needs, dreams, loves and hates of my searing life,
Hanging on the grey pedestals of would be rocks,
Just before it all started, when I was just a hope,
That someone clinged on to as her best moment to be,
Can't agree that this was all going to turn out like this,
But it did and the rocks turned out harder than reality,
The waves of my dreams smashing against them,
The bolts of my silent seething pain striking across,
The canvas of my vision, a little dull at the edges,
But bright, stark and sharp near the crimson center,
And thunders follow the lightning, a tuneful of damage,
Etching certain marks on me and others elsewhere,
Drawing out masterpieces from hopes and dreams,
With a rolling stone, cold cookies and steaming milk,
Little smiling faces, running on like flowing silk,
A fair barter for what was lost, whispers tell me,
Just before I felt the ice melting away on my  fingers,
And I could see deep down the abyss, a clear lake,
With no reflections of the chaos floating far above,
Just a silent cautious acknowledgement of its reailty,
Impelling me to step back and to turn around -
To look ahead to the odyssey ahead,  clear and new,
To let go of the yesterdays, with my coloured fingers,
And paint my own skies, fields and rainbow dusks.

- Anubhav

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