Ruins Of A Masterpiece.

This is how it goes,

You’re in front of me and everything looks perfect. I want to capture this moment. 
I take too much time with that paint brush. 
Carefully choosing the colours, all of my favourite ones. 

Dipping the brush into yellow, and gliding the warmth across the canvas.

Saturating into red, I let it slither over the vacant background. Filling it with love, slipping over the warm yellow, too. 

The brush is drenched again and again.

Too much time and patience is spent painting this perfect picture. 

I step back and take a look at it.

Such a pretty picture is created, with all the radiant shades. 

Glowing with the yellows of sun and warmth, ripened apples with love, tinted a little with the blues of your clouds, dreams and moods.

I am puffed up with pride, feeling like Picasso.

Suddenly, you come forward, and plunge it underwater.

The paint rises, it is dilapidated. 

Everything falls apart. 

Are you kidding me? It is no longer perfect.

And, I realize it had never been.

Who am I fooling? I was never an artist, anyway.

Subsequently, you go out of the door as I crumble, looking numbly at the ravages.

I guess, somewhere deep in my empty chest, I always knew that the memories will fade and the paint will peel.

Still, I tried my hand at it.

That was a glorifying masterpiece.

Yes. It was. Exemplary.

While now this is just one of the many empty sheets of paper, with no potential and desire to be filled.

I look down at my hands, they are no longer covered with the colours that you were. 

No longer stained with the blotches of that impeccable wonder.

But, you. You’ll forever be a mess of yellows, reds and blues,

smeared across the blank wall of my mind.

And maybe, 

It is meant to be like this only.


Your Blaze

Into thousands of undying landscapes
Walked, rubbing my wet, cold hands
Looking for a prehensile
Found you kindling a fire of my demands.

Drawn towards you radiating the light
I found my stomach in knots
With opulence of heat, soon I fell asleep
Comatose with your thoughts.

In darkness, apodictic darkness
I heard this tread or fall of the feet
With dried leaves, snapping and crushing
My body burned with heat.

The blood curdling red door of the mind
Opened and plopped the anger
Seeking for something silver
When I was the pure amber.

Now, I’m thinking of being cold again
The fire that brought us close
And dissipating our anxieties
Even in warmth, the moment froze.

Hundred things I try to run away from
Those feelings wasted, time spent in warmth
Cause they push me to the dark corners of my mind
Ever since that fire has been extinguished by storm.

That winter tempest you left me in
Where once a little snowman we had built
It wasn’t even my fault that it melted
Still, you convicted me of guilt.

Now I’m stuck in a dark room
And it is always snowing outside
You’re not here to find me the way home, 
But this time, I won’t swallow my pride.

Now I’m trying to cut you off
But your memories are entangled like vines
And carving you out of the echoes
Will be like erasing mine.

The Help.

Prowled round the edge of the gorse layer
Wild pear trees, thick winter air
Old leaves dead around my feet
Picked up a Fitzgerald book, took my seat.

The words started to grow on me inchmeal
Desired if it could all be real.
Not mere books, but sustained the life in me
Legitimized the freedom to become what in actuality I couldn’t be.

Late in the damp December afternoon
Cold mists creeping, and darkness waiting to sink in from above
With the adventures I could never have and people I couldn’t be,
I fell in love.

There was a bit of yellowness where the sun was fading away
Wondered how my wounded soul started to sway.
I was a reader that I realized,
With a book in its verisimilitude , the whole world paralyzed.

Same books, old faces, but new was my pain
How I breathed words, as the ground soused with rain.
In that cold, I tried to stay warm while glacial blood flowed through me
Reconsidering vehemently what I wanted to be.

I didn’t know what I wanted to do
Aslan’s Narnian visit maybe, but Harry’s spells were few.
Wasting days frozen in my bed
Obsessing with what’s going on in my head.

Over the internet, that blog, I see a light
Frosty morning, air still, sun was bright
Unfettered with concern, I didn’t know who
Him? Her? The silhouette ? Or was it you?

Reading about his experiences and life
Tore me open, left me red, raw and rife.
Reminded me of everything ever happened to me
Found a purpose, finally at peace, someway it be.

Never did we converse, but we definitely talked
Realization held me together, pessimism, suspicions blocked
Deep awe of words, touched hidden places inside of me
Not a writer, but the writing itself begot me.