.
Beginnings like this,
remind me of my three-year old self,
sorting crayons
for a living as if
the future depends on the way
that she picks,
scrutinizes,
and puts them together.
red, blue and yellow
red, blue and yellow;
she store her voices
on canyons and caves
that are deprived
of sound waves just to let
her echoes command
the colors to sprout,
let the flickers of her bedside lamps
to bring her to castles
that are only built
on her mother's mouth,
the empty cup of coffee
on her father's desk
to be filled with rainbows
that are made of silver and gold;
she wants to put all the shades
of the colors in the sky
so that when it rains,
she would love to embrace
and feel it in her arms.
Red, blue and yellow,
red, blue and yellow;
black was then created
but raindrops don't taste
like spectrum
and peace.
While I was writing this,
my three-year old self
took my pen away,
utilized my vocabulary,
wrote an autobiography for herself,
handed it to me -
told me that it's time
for me to recognize her mistake
as a lesson whenever
that I begin to
play with my wishes.
"beginnings like that
need to reach end lines",
I told her as soon
as I mark punctuations
on my pieces.
-MLD | 01122021
YOU ARE READING
Artifice
PoetryMy question marks were never caged but they always find ways to conceal their images and trick the pachydermatous spectator with artifice. Maybe, certainty can be Socrates listening to the mixtape in my closet? Maybe uncertainty can be me withou...
