Humbled, she lowered her head involuntary,
A zillion thoughts running up there,
She took out time to smile at each.
Drained, she sunk into the nearest couch,
Not one moment feeling tired,
In fact enjoying the tickling pain, as if it was music.
Dazed, she saw something shine in a distance,
Thinking it was a star somewhere far,
Hoping it was a beautiful future though.
Amused, she played with every bit of it all,
Sometimes tired, jolted sometimes,
Juggling with time, space and emotions et al.
She walks the miles, and sails through some stretches,
And gallops through some bits too.
Her adventures, her experiences,
As she collects the material to pen her PINKS AND BLUES 😉
And as the rain peter panned on her window,
She picked up her pink umbrella and went for a stroll.
The rain slashing on her umbrella,
She felt uneasy.
Her choice of clothes, black that day,
Her choice of words, none that day.
The brown puddle of mud, gave her peace,
The wet roadside, as if made her tension release.
And then after she had walked down more miles than she realised,
Her yellow boots made some noise.
She paused, looked around,
And threw away her lovely umbrella in the air.
As the wind carried it away to she didn’t know where,
She said a silent prayer,
Not caring that her black mascara streamed down her face,
Making her black tee blacker.
It struck her why she must have chosen to wear this-
For neither tears, nor rain, nor the streaming mascara,
Could leave a mark on this colour,
And given her messy life now, she couldn’t ask for MORE.
There far away where the sun shines,
My heart will settle and stay fine.
I may or may not continue to be here,
But my heart, words and footprints shall for forever be left behind.
Effectively my heart still lingers onto memories those,
It is stuck, does not move, will not budge.
But now I hire all the strength in the world,
To push them away, make them go.
And as I pay all the coins I have for this,
I give up my riches and yet become richer.
My poor soul laments in the joy of peace,
But heart sticks onto and pushes for the greeds.
It is hurt, and gruesomely bruised,
My heart sings a song and demands a truce.
It fought like a warrior in times very bad,
It stood like a wall, strong as a dad.
But now it asks for permission to retire, to leave,
It is no so old, yet tired and turning meek.
Where it desired to witness the pinks and reds in life,
It only got blue and green and then turned COLOURLESS.
She picked up a book at the library
It was yellow and crumpling.
Its dog eared ends spake a story
Its water hardened pages defined its end.
She loved the smell, the aura of an old
She loved the feel, the touch of it whole.
And just as she began to read the book,
Her eyes lighted up.
For there in the pages there was,
A dry red rose parked and telling a story of a lover old.
She picked up the flower
It crumpled like it melted
Threw it away and instead planted,
Another rose but this time pink
For her story this was, and it was a little jinxed.
She read the book and let the flower be
Then returned the book to the library.
20 years thence she re-issued the book in her name
Only to find her pink rose gone
For another reader had now put there,
A red red rose with a big big thorn
She pricked herself with it
and immediately realised
That leaving a pink rose was not wise
By doing that she had left behind,
Hatred and confusion for the next in line.
For the pink flower had to be thrown away
Because it had turned dirty pink black,
Coz pink is confusion,
Coz pink is everything the red one could never have LACKED.