October 23, 2017

 

The Convict

 
 
 

The Convict

This morning thousand rays
of the auburn sun
crawls into the insipid skin
of the blue dome
eyes burn in silence and anguish
of a hushed day;
pastel hues inundate the backdrop
of mind

I speak of a day of fuchsia dreams
of a syllabi of hyped lilies and bougainvilleas
the dews that hang perilously
from their mouth
'The Flame of the Forest'
speculate a cawing crow,
its frustrated call for mating
a single cloths-line hum a desolate tune
the beetles feed on cow-dung

A desperate soul stitches
the pensive hours in the
frame of time. Bats blinded
by the day hangs on the
willow trees by the marsh. A convict,
in iron manacles lurches about
in ambush.






Article © Deeya Bhattacharya. All rights reserved.
Published on 2017-07-03
Image(s) are public domain.


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The Convict

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