I dream colours.
They come and create collage
while I sleep.
There is a nausea
in not seeing black.
You won't miss it
until it is not there.
It's almost as people who stand there
in our lives, as shadows;
And we forget them at nights.
The mosaic in my floor teaches me
the philosophy of life.
In all this shine, I see
my opaque face and feet,
together in one square.
I keep coloured scraps, glitter pens
and emotional hues.
On a rainy afternoon,
when sadness is a guest
To old bricks' house,
I will paint on the roof.
Mix oil pastel to rain waters then.
It smells a lot like life.
SoUmY@
They come and create collage
while I sleep.
There is a nausea
in not seeing black.
You won't miss it
until it is not there.
It's almost as people who stand there
in our lives, as shadows;
And we forget them at nights.
The mosaic in my floor teaches me
the philosophy of life.
In all this shine, I see
my opaque face and feet,
together in one square.
I keep coloured scraps, glitter pens
and emotional hues.
On a rainy afternoon,
when sadness is a guest
To old bricks' house,
I will paint on the roof.
Mix oil pastel to rain waters then.
It smells a lot like life.
SoUmY@
Comments
So true.. loved the title as well. Wise.
Yet another glory..
I wonder if there is any difference between your prose and your poetry...for your prose flows as poetically as an uninterrupted brook just as glorious your poetry does.
Either way, they enchant.
It is at once liberating and confining. The insoluble pain, and the relief, one seeks.
Very very moving!
loved usha ma'ms comment! that says it all :)