A blue reverie

Midnight seeps through a crack and morphs into dawn. Flowers will drink the morning dew and wither in this lopsided pattern of faded blues.  Seasons are fleeting from weddings and wakes to wedding veils turned into funeral shrouds. Ebbing heavenwards. Where is hope? I am trying to tell a tale that shifts like a gale. I am more afraid of living than I am of dying. Blood to the earth. Tears, black and graveyards. Song to the skies. Dew, moon, and sunlight. The night bedecked with stars lays in his slumber in broken silence. Perhaps the dead have a place of their own where they are locked up and tamed. Perhaps they dance and sing in their own haze.   For   what is death but   black and blue   with red and   plenty of empty greys In this atmosphere of annihilation, I am an artist with a heavy heart stuck with an empty canvas. I want to paint my paternal grandmother’s soul and my maternal grandfather’s laughter. I want to paint his r...

Photo by Jun Perez on Pinterest   Light and shadow. Master of the art, you know how to play this game. Toss a coin, no head or tail. It balanced on its edge swirling in endless circles. It’s not a win. You are just good with schemes. The sky lights up. The world is grey. It’s going to rain tonight. The sky is on fire .The lake has hushed her song. Hear the thunder? You look up and sigh. Sometimes, the world is sad too.   Birds fold their wings in silent muse, Omnipotent orb takes its last sip from the lake's silver fuse, Trees adapt and bend, drink from the wind's wrath, Nature dwindling, fading lush and hues of grey.... You stick out your tongue and taste the first raindrops. You said when you were younger, you bathed in its waters. That you stood under the gutter and shivered .The rain water stung your skin as she, the other mum that life offered you scrubbed your face with soap and stone while your step brothers and sisters rolled on thei...

                                                                       Song of the morning. Winter bliss. The things that were. Won’t ever be. The songs we sang have dried up in our throats. The melodies morphed back into pain. A thousand clouds, just a star or two. Beneath the leafless tree, a manic brain on a moonless sky. Flashing satin phantoms in the night. Whispers in the trees. Gentle laps on the stream. In the darkness, eyes become ears; blinking in the infinite emptiness of nocturnal and thoughts, wholesome darkness that can be touched. Darkness that enshrouds. I’ll rip a little bit of it and wear its black as a crown for pain. The rest I shall stuff in the voids of my soul to make me feel whole. A tear then two. Torrents from a clouded soul. Rushing breath and muffled ...

They were lovers in the dark, hands groping in the emptiness for something solid to hold. They were the same chords of the guitar playing different songs; Melancholy and nostalgia The dying embers of a once fierce flame. The last raindrop on sandy soil. Their rhyme was a water droplet on cold asphalt unfelt, forlorn, without cognizance.  February and July. Abandoned like crayons of a child at play. They were twin roaches looking for a home in the heart of darkness, delving deep into the black mess. Getting lost in the harrowing hues. Tumbling. Falling. Breaking. They were a whirlwind that gathered momentum and gyrated to a great crescendo collecting everything on its path, spewing dust, and clouding the whole town with wonder but upon daylight, the god of new beginnings, everyone dusted their apparel the wind now just a memory. Forgotten. She was July. Stoic. She was all of July stars, its sun, moon, freeze, mirth, and song. A half-moon hidden by the clouds on ra...