The fractured glass, the streets buzzing with a thousand
narratives You sleep under the skies blackened greased
tarpaulin You almost invite violence Of trampling
And yet you survive You live with less You strike
back at life with emptiness.
Under the starry nights dressed in black
To become one with the night
The narratives ran like this...
'A girl was left grieving behind.
The skies cry when I cry.'
They say when there is a little sun while it rains
A fox is getting hitched with a lion
And such things that make me doubt the intentions of rainbows
And coffee is good for such musings
And of course I wouldn't paint the
walls of the cafe in rainbow hues
The white of the walls are exactly
What a writer expanding and stretching
her grief wants. Melancholy is black
and white. Either absorbs or reflects
Love is like public offering where the golden eggs not
hatched yet are published in font size 32.
The risks are in fine print.
I don't do fine print.