it is falling like a sun-pigment, down
with three-eyed cues to evoke sentiments,
bringing the yellow with orange with brown,
and the toil of ball-clay-modeled laments.
it drinks the warmth and bathes in lasting sin-
full holds of my fine-textured, genteel hands.
it is the hue that pigments my blotched skin,
and reminds me of the last rain’s soaked sand.
it is the sheath to my patterned truths — pain
that rests and rumbles in wakeful sleeping.
it is the ferrous wonder of force — gained
with a compliant resolve for melding
hopes and despairs with an equal measure,
and dreaming of an eve’s ochrous pleasure.
© Anmol Arora 2018