I still have it your favourite pink roll comb with the smooth bristles and colourful buds on edge entangled with your hair which I never removed. It’s here.
Hope to meet you someday and find your hair messy that moment of joy will bring back life in it then I shall clean this comb like I always did before. It’s here.
I promise you I’ll brush very gently, never to hurt you and make my doll ready for yet another day then I shall hug you like I always did before and that shall make my day, but now the warmth of your hug I shall need to preserve as I don’t know when, where, how I’ll meet you next or if ever I will see you again. It’s here and we’re waiting.
It slithers, the tongue trying to find the rage on cold words. A window shuts on fire for a deliberate withdrawl from conflicts. The virgin iron becomes a corpse under the golden amnesia of hot greens. The colors are changing
Pigments on rocks were darkening. Violence had permeated like skunk. Enough to go numb. Stream of blood. Entire limbs were missing. You want to go insane, deoxygenated. The bomber was going to face a firing squad. Were you ready to
Burnt-out myths in the old city are stitching the lips of people. Pink walls smell like blood. Priest is dumb, hoisting the headless deity on throne. Marigolds are soaked in flowing tears. Innocent wheels riding against blast, stand still to
The beauty and aroma of that kingly pink rose, caught my sense and forced me to pluck that natural pose. Attracted by its mystery, knowing little about its history, just looking at its pinky blush, my feelings ran deeply flush.