Skip to main content

The Portrait

The prosaic strokes of her brush made her see
The truth she had been trying to bury.
"I can paint anything, Jim, but you," she whispered.
"I have spent too much time trying to paint your eyes,
While the real ones watched me from a distance.
And like the end of an evanescing dream you faded
And became the white of this canvas I cannot fill.
Death, like you said, is just another colour from my box.
Tell me, why can't my brush find your face?
Have I buried the scent of your love too deep
Under the stench of my paints?
Will this empty canvas never show me your face
And calm the storms in my sundry selves?
Give me the strength, Jim, to face you again;
To look you in the eye and ask if the sun
Shines bright on the other side. Help me find
The colour of death in my box, so that
You can see me, once again, as I paint you."

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A Dream

I live and breathe like a misplaced dream In this labyrinthine construct of time; Like a flower that blooms in the wrong garden; Like a kite that soars in the wrong sky. I try to find my place in this maze; Where the horizon is a cerulean haze; Where children are taught how to lie; Where a flightless swallow dreams to fly; Where tears burn the eyes like a pyre; Where simplicity gets butchered by satire; Where justice is just like a starless night; Where compassion is always a lost fight; Where deaths can kindle an endless debate; Where love is defeated by war and hate; Where colours of humans put seasons to shame; Where despair is the prize for the agonizing game. I watch, I cry, and I wish to be born In the distant future; For one day there’ll be A world that cares, a world that dreams; And I will find the right sky for my kite.
2 comments
Read more

The Exoneration of Heidi Schäfer

In the shadows of a dead city she stood And waited for the sun to go down. Heidi had been a daughter, a wife, a mother, But never Heidi. She watched the remnants of a long forgotten song Lancing towards her from the medallion above And her heart looked for the listener; The one who had listened to all her prayers. "Now that my road has come to its end, Show me where I can wash these stains Off my broken skin," Heidi whispered When she found the listener, Playing his flute under an ageless tree. "You've come a long way, Heidi," he said, "You were too cautious not to fall, Which made you forget that you could fly." Heidi watched the hills falling in love with The abstrusity in the melodies he wove And said, "The hills look like a dream." "Yes, but a dream you chose to bury, Under the weight of your sins," he said. "You have been all, Heidi - You have been a seed, a plant and a tree But you never danced wit...
2 comments
Read more

The Riddle

Says the poet, “O divine little sunflower, You make my pen and my heart stop. There are no limits known, the enigma Of your surreal beauty cannot reach.” It is a fear that lingers in the rhythm; A fear of letting her watch his naked heart. It’s his love the poet shall never speak of. “What if she refuses to bloom?” Fear has myriad shades, but this shade Was no stranger; “We share a bond,” He says, “And for her I’m just the man Who waters her and watches her bloom. I am nothing more. I am nothing less. But does she know her place In every dream I have? Has anybody else Watered her the way I do? Has anybody else feared To not wake up to her effulgence? Maybe she knows,” thinks the poet, And he asks the Sun, who knows all, “Does she tell you about me?”  When the Sun goes down, the poet watches His little flower, still dispelling all the gloom, And his heart yearns to believe, “She knows.” A poetised riddle is what they share, and he Accepts, a poet in love i...
Post a Comment
Read more