Manasa

for how cruel it is to only let me know you in depth

when the sand in the hourglass between us has almost

You shall find the moth eaten pages of trust

and rusted needles of love,

Half sewn book of quasi written confessions

And scorch marks gifted by the flames of fear.

Try unmasking me

You may find the ugliness of a rancid soul

A rotten heart, slow in pace

That your breath burns my skin,

your touch wraps everything in shadow,

your eyes carve hatred where you look,

that a tender word would kill

to be uttered by your merciless tongue.

Dangled and danced the fine tendrils of your

Hair strands

In the rhythm of rain poured over the towers of age

Leaved centenarians bathed afresh,

With head buried in a marked up notebook

The curls sanguine swayed and stroked the pages inked,

Engraved in memory mine was this stolen sight

For the wind that wound around you in joy

by a throbbing heart,

An underfed pen resting on a

bounded bundle of once dead birch;

Together they create and crash

In the redness of her lips

camouflaged is the ferity of her tongue.

Painted over her chronic sneer

is the subtle smile with which she decieves.

Warm tan skin, a coverlet

to conceal the venom that runs beneath.

Credulous eyes,

you left me, Disa.

Undone hair

Lungs overworked

Shoulders air kissed

Trembling limbs

Scattered mind

And a soul ecstatic.

Dyed paint brushes

and colourant pallets,

Grey they were yet

their vibrance you showed.

In all your tinted forgery

silence remained the prime mix.

Now tell me not a thing

but this,

Was I a good memory, Disa,

Linger there and fill my lungs with roses so red,