By Tara Aryan
Sweeping and swallowing upon the lake,
My heart is plastic, the gold is fake.
Dripping with nothing, natural and bare,
The look I got within the stare.
Uncoiled, unravelled just like a spring,
No feathers on me but without the wing.
Tainted fur but without the white,
The dried-up river, a sad solemn sight.
But the tears that pour are full and fair,
A rip, a cut, a wound and fear.
The vision of it struck me and buried my soul,
Has left me in tatters in a deep never-ending hole,
But angelic and innocent within its touch,
For gold is nothing but love is too much.
For sweeping and swallowing upon the mist,
Where my heart had loved, upon his lips I kissed.
So where is it now they ask, they say?
Well my sorrow left me for dead, so I pray,
That one day it will come back to me, that thing called joy,
But still comfort disappears and its aim is to destroy.
Blue curdled colours sway around my mind,
Trying to stay focussed ahead not on what’s behind.
Future wraps around itself, no grudge, no hold,
A memory of struggles that had never been told.
So, there he lies lifeless under the water of the lake,
Moulded into its bed, he wallows his life now at stake.
As every beat, the blood flows so naturally, leaving him gasping for air,
But the devil pulls him under now entering into his lair.
I recall the fine details of his face before I knew,
That he had been recovered, battered bruised and blue.
For I cannot paint the beauty with the colours of his world,
As I had wrapped my fingers around his, small and curled.
Where I skid upon the lake with him, frozen, full of ice,
If fate chooses me to decide again, I’ll remember to think twice.