she goes chasing butterflies
smile
as wide as open skies
sun beams gamboling in her eyes
little feet scatter
dead ghosts
about her
pollens disperse
in her laughter
stars dance
birthing a universe
while her father
settles
on the grass
heart warm as a kettle
uncalled tears ripple
“father!” she bows
a little princess
butterflies rainbow
a halo
her hands flower
to reveal
a haven of colours
the garden let gather
“You must not know”
he whispers battered tears into the breeze
“You belong to me now
you will have a tomorrow”
How will you fill it
the dark indelible blot
that has taken the place
of your soul
what matter will replace
the festering hole?
What elixir will placate
your palate
the thirst
that made you seek
truth first
in these long forgotten streets?
Dismembered dreams die
around your feel they lie
while you chased fleeting fancies
your paper boat sails
dead seas
a storm at its tail
drunk on delusions
you voice your visions
to willing ears
preach your philosophies
in crowded bars
wielding your epiphanies
will you mirror
your dank corridors
into translucent reflections
hide your true self away
affected affections
cloaking your days?
How will you fill it
the dark indelible blot
that has taken the place
of your soul
what matter will replace
the festering hole?
Strange: the laws of nature. Stranger still are the people who live by, with, or against it. Instinct takes us as far as our survival. Beyond that lies the weird world of the cognitive mind. The possibilities are as endless and as vast as the universe.
“What a waste!”, he cried, feeling the need to voice out what he had inside for years, “you would make a fine wife”. She grinned, masticated grains of betel-nut tottering at the edge of her reddened lips, the color not by any lipstick but by what she chew. What a waste it would be, to spend money on a vanity stick!
As she cackled, the torrents of red juice, with a whole lot of betel pieces to boot, spewed toward him but missed. He knew it was coming , this wasn’t the first time. He had learnt through experience, which meant he had been showered with red rain before; his cheeks dripping red, hands picking up the pieces from his shirt, spitting and retching out lucky bits that had found their way into his mouth. The spittle missile shot through the air where a second ago his head was, and hit the wall. Muffling further jets with her delicate hand, her mouth battling with palm for relief, she walked past him.
“Look at that form!”, she cried now, decorum flying in the wind, dribbling blood streams from the corners of her mouth. “How expressive! I have always felt like this inside”. Her face took on the somber tone which descended when she had a revelation. “All these years of painting and I could never do this with my colours and brushes”. Now, her face calmed. It had the look of purpose.
“What form?” he threw his hands into the air, “all I see is a bad patch of betel-juice on my wall…talking of which, we better get started before mother comes!” He grunted his resignation, small eyes taking in the four walls. Where there were posters on the wall, one could see, between them, peeking, pink textures which could have been only her doing. His only white wall now needed a good scouring.
She cackled again, driving a wedge into his heart. “What a waste!”, he cried again, shaking his head, perplexed by the queer nature of things, “what a waste!”. A shadow passed over him, clouding his expression for a second she could not read it.
“If only she liked men,” he mumbled under his breath as he left her glued to the artwork on the wall
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