Boys like them want a brief break after the long race.
A frantic race to the finish line;
a rush to get things done;
a groaning dread thumping their souls—
and in the end, the universe bleeds into hollow ashes.
They've their ways set far from the world's cry.
The forests set on fire, the pale pink snow,
and the man with a burning cigar are what they cry for.
The colors drain everything off their hearts.
Every indigo, maroon, and violet fade in the advancing
dusk — wilting flowers clogging their feet.
They inhale the colors in rolling smoke,
making their lungs curl in need.
They take in, letting the putrid air thicken the edges —
slowly burning their lives away by
swallowing everything they see.
The poison plagues their minds;
their chemical lungs beat against their veins and arteries;
Unrhythmic breathes in the Spanish air —
Liquid blue skies fade in screaming black limbs;
the colors that have numbed them to death,
and made them powerless to give up.
The sharp razor cuts turn deep purple,
and blood on the burning letters
compose hymns of oceanic illusions.
They light the cigars and inhale the thick smoke.
It doesn't make them satiated,
but cold — too cold to walk another mile.
The fireplace burns out of nothing.
Their breaths quicken in the city cries
before dissipating in the bleeding soil and weeping trees.
The shade of the oak tree doesn't grow—
the one where they used to watch their shadows
thawing with the smoke tendrils to nothingness.
The space's now nothing but a burnt hole
in their hearts — famished in sorrow.
Their hearts are made of glasses;
the ones where nothing could break into except the colors.
Time's melting inside the fevered hourglass.
Life's fleeting too fast in the smoky world
of storms and youth,
pain, and love.
Famished boys crave more — nothing could quench their souls.
They need more of this universe, these smoky colors, their lives,
and everything that melts into oblivion.
They burn in hunger too fast and too deadly before freezing in time.
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A/N: Did the little yellow stars freeze too? I hope they didn't!
©March 27, 2023. Sreeja Naskar.
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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 ||
