Tuesday, 25 October 2016


I have lost my poetry
in the coloured fabric
of civilization,
that lured me to dance
my ink upon,
unknown of the screams
trapped in the colours
of the cursed fabric!

Black isn't frightening
if She's dark truly.
Voids dressed in colours
of the rainbow kill
enthusiasm of a theist,
deceive the deceived,
mar a revolution!

White is a suffocating camouflage
like emotions of a man
who lost his baby
but saved his wife.
Breaths halt at stoppages
of sketched dreams,
and life...?
Life clings to crumbs
of love,
and gods cling to promises
made to them.

Sunsets invite celebrations:
dances and drinks for teenagers,
nostalgia for old gentlemen,
joys only years can measure!

What does life hold?
Colours or perspectives?
Red isn't love
if it's a crime scene.
Black isn't evil
for the blind.
Pink isn't glamorous
without respect.
Brown isn't earth
for land mafias.
White cannot be peace
for confusing fogs.

Only you can speak
of your colour...
Is it random or constant?
Or is it a camouflage
just like White?