The ambers of a rainbow not yet drawn, as if this were a colouring book; one you hadn't yet filled with all colours you. The sky then, a desperate white and the grass, not yet greener on the other side, it's all but a pale line across the page not yet touched by your green thumb. Here we find ourselves then, as we're taught in school.
A beginning, middle and an end,
school, university and then a job.
They all run in threes.
Though life doesn't run in threes,
sometimes time breaks
and it stutters, perplexed
in echopraxia.
There wasn't a distinct moment In which I knew that my interest for literature and writing, in general, was something that went beyond school hours; I still believe that writing is something everyone can do, and therefore I am nothing special; just a frog in one large pond. Unlike any good text-book story, mine has no beginning, nor a climax and as long as I'm still breathing, no end. Even after I die, some fragments of the life I've wasted may venture through the courthouses that are the reader's judgment. And I will either be remembered for what I have done or for what I could've, had I not died.
My Wilde once said "Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth." I ought to wear mine and talk less about me and more about her...
Your colours of a rainbow filled, spill over like felt-tip through one page onto the next; perhaps patience wasn't always a part of the colours in your spirit. Perhaps, you were once colourless, a pale, oh! so poor little thing, bed by the bad wolfs of this world just as she was. Just as she was, bleeding through the pages of her own story, from one page onto the next - there's no clear end. She lives it again, again, and again ... oh but life doesn't run in threes.
Bleed her dry,
bleed her dry,
bleed her dry
Oh! how horrid you have been, Oh! dearest Life.
A putrid morning dew sits upon her windowsill, and there she stays, and there she draws out her heart on the wet windowsill, and there she awaits her Romeo. While he gallops, across the greener side of the grass, on a gallant Arabian stallion to the window of another tortured queen. What say you then, is there love left for her?
YOU ARE READING
Once Upon A Time, Time Stopped
PoetryDon't let your mind wander too far, for it will lose its selves - soul, thought and body. A soul that has lost its body is like a cat straying until it cannot pick up the familar scent of home anymore. It never returns, falling slave to a human God...
