through my bespectacled eyes,
i cannot pinpoint when the orange
turns to blush, or when the savage
evening bares its blunt fangs for
a final feeding, and still, i am
engrossed in the spectacle of
this agitation, or the sense of
its happenstance, its belief —
a half-dead day looks down on
its own destiny, of consumption
without pleasure. my pink-gold
lips flutter in this breeze that is
no breeze and i hear the drop
of a celestial bell, coming
into being,
purple sights cartwheel in this
shadow-scene.
where do you go from here?
where do you find a colorless sunset
for your blindness?
left behind —
a nightless mood
revels in this pause, that goes on
and on,
as survival hangs by the toe-nail
of a petrified sky, pure in the pale-
horror, turning into
ashes, tears, and
undesired rebirths.
.
© Anmol Arora 2018
For The Midweek Motif at PU
Image source (Magritte’s The Banquet)
***
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