How long has it been,
No sight of the butterfly spring.
An amber-dotted winged angel.
The eyes have searched for
the orange streaks of Palash
For days in nature's blush,
and in your eyes.
You knew that spring
wouldn't come again—yet
You looked at the horizon
now and then; and suddenly,
it felt to be alive again.
A sky of hues, a myriad of unshed paints—
Like another parched painting of Picasso,
In the spilled colors stained on your shirt,
Time swung low, high in the sky, and
After brushing your skin, ran away.
And before you could understand,
It bloomed the flowers in our graves,
as a thousand dreams sprouted.
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A/N: Any thoughts on how it could look like if this really happened? Kindly vote anyway! :)
YOU ARE READING
the slow art of breathing bitter
Poetryslow dancing love and pain in the midnight chorus of liquor-washed autumn green ... || a constellation of destructive poetry ||
