What If

Crystal-like rays,

Sequencing her footsteps,

intruders

Of cooling embers,

That construct her

cyclic thoughts.

 

A rhythm

well-rehearsed

by the worn sandals

slapping the concrete,

A pattern, committed

to memory.

 

Look there she goes

again.

Searching for a rope

to hang onto

There,

she goes again,

scavenging for a star

that makes her

heart sore.

 

Lost

of sense

Rid

of passion

Down she goes

where the lips

smile, eyes

devoid, of a

thirst to live

the lie she is caught in.

 

Shrivelled hands

mimicking the limp

Of autumn flowers,

Ruby cast of the

setting sun 

reduced

to a dull maroon.

 

Look she’s

acting up

again.

Nuisance, to the

sympathetic caresses, the

“You’re okay”,  smiles.

 

Yes, turn a blind eye,

when she is

tangled

in a web

of bleached rainbows

cringing at the wilted leaf in

the glass.

 

Oblivious, they call her,

ignorant, of what

she has.

“Learn to appreciate!” the

jests fall

like a mocking siren.

 

Rid her

of the delusions

she has flowered.

Snatch away

the paint,

that spoke of her beauty.

 

There she stood

once

Not a care in the world

for pretence courtesies,

And here

she kneels now,

at the mercy of her ringmasters.

 

Come, take your

time, if you will,

to ogle

as the cold eyes

stare back.

Push her off

the tips of her

toenails,

Succumbed

into madness.

 

+Manushrie Verma+

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8 thoughts on “What If

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