From Pink Cold to Maroon Feet

“Depression is like being Colourblind and constantly told how colourful 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 vapours 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 colours 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 colours

Still they hunch with a smile, knowing age reached them half senile, half mental


© Prateek Joshi and WordPress, 2017

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