“Depression is like being colorblind and constantly told how colorful the world is.”
– Atticus, Love Her Wild
Despite the live wires that are there, contours of the wall exist
As plain paint varnished with brush, bubbling with tired streaks,
With the vapors of dew embroiled in a glory market; the pieces undo
The trickles of sunshine into a ghoul that seeds vile implosions.
The buds fickle off a branch and enclosed they see the world,
In their own magnified detours, of living for a day they would finally go through.
Seated on a floor that barely squeezes in a couple, an affair throngs –
One that wades into the leaky membranes of grey matter,
A bleed to numb the brain and it goes off again, drilling to bill the being
Draining the sole reprise off its shades, the curves and the overtures
The hallow rests in sullen sleep, a rage that burns and kills the creed,
The strait joining life with lead; a letter weeps and better to believe
The pond too shallow, to support the fish wiggles away from any wish.
The fetters find full the grey tunes that ground the gully
Wither the waited dream as a trojan to break further the bridge.
Where do the fish go when they die? They sleep and dreams take over.
Wary the butterfly edge to the bees — rest, but the moment undresses colors ink to reverie
And away the awake rhymes flow but the evening is too heavy to even blow
With the bubbles that bleach geometry from hymns to tarry;
The sail to drag the brag of woods drivels an empty apology
The blare of the traffic jitters away the numbness and cold sweat pick their place
Atop the mounted flies that whisper the tales of their lives in drain
Pulsing with a heart brimming with ladders, snakes are a punch away
And when someone shivers, they pounce over with spiders to spit their venom.
Ragged goes the bitter tears which would slip down the soul of such a man
Mean, oiled and ghastly drapes skull over the brain of a such woman
But they lead the plunge as nothing tastes much or better
Than the thrifty thrill of coming off a dune when sand enters lungs,
So they haunt their reflection, gaunt they appear even though perching colors
Still they hunch with a smile, knowing age reached them half senile, half mental
© Prateek Joshi and WordPress, 2017-2018