August 1, 2017
A Journey, Backward
Writing on the bark of a tree, sometimes, seems to be tricky
Than writing a propos to a tree.
We stretched one of our legs each
And, with other two creased,
Tried to form a cave;
A cave where light embezzles its siesta
After a tedious journey from
Love-me to love-me-not.
It was a sultry breeze that waited a long to brazen out the mirror.
The mirror was hidden… Beneath a deep-delved shadow
Of promiscuity. We tunneled the coward earth,
Tore up leaves unbuttoned—yellow and green—
Crushed, kissed, molested, adored
Every sprout, every leaf, every single strip of brown bark
Who are yet to bear with the warmth of our mortal love?
And, so, with this pen-ridden hand
Holding upwards under this glare of known devils
We are still struggling to escape
The labyrinth of our own roots…
Time slowed to a crawl.
She got down andFound her own home
Unknown than ever before.
The question that loomed large over her
Was unidentified, as usual.
The door was ajar; unafraid to welcome truth.
He knew how to paint tattoos: black roses, green lizards,
Red ships and silver suns. He learnt how to nosh poison to
Himself. He did not know the art of digestion.
Or else he would have ingested
His failure to spot color in an object
And, thus, he enlivened black roses, green lizards, red ships and silver suns.
Chemicals usually emit stringent smells.
She clasped a hand over her nose and
Started moving sideways.
©Amrita Bhattacharyya; image ©Shoili Kanungo
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