Poetry

Grey: Poem

Sidlak#3
Sidlak: A five line poem composed of 3-5-7-9 syllables and the last line (without restrictions on syllables) indicates a colour that sums up the authors’ feelings and the spirit of the poem.

 

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The moon’s welts

reflect a beaten

broken world of hapless sins

Yet there’s hope- hints of white glint amidst

the grey globe of today

Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

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Poetry

Painting: Poem

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An art brush drips inside of me

Throbbing, kicking wildly

Lettering a tragicomedy-

Brazen strokes vibrant of

ecstasy, sorrow and madness

bleeding in –

Red Green Blue

throw themselves

against the receptive canvas

I live loudly

My single redeeming attribute

I hold nothing back-

When you ask to witness

the spells of a fiery sketch

Don’t be bewildered

if I confess –

All my paintings

breathe

inside of me

Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

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Myriad Musings

Colours in the mirror

In my ascent to gigantic benchmarks, I stepped on many toes.

I adorned and abandoned masks like a transformable being.

I picked values from the spinning wheel of time, my finger pointing at the moral that was made for that day.

I stifled the punching pillow that was my snuffling conscience to the point where there was no more cushion left in it to protest.

Somewhere, near the end, I woke up, wondering who the hell I was. Why not seek answers from the mirror?

I vainly strutted to the metal-glass amalgam and the looking glass gave me answers to questions I hadn’t dared ask.

A red face taunted me. A red that had once indicated passion, screamed resentment and fury.

My sadness was striped across blue sagged shoulders. That explained why I felt so blue.

I felt sick to my stomach. I gaped at the green belly, overflowing with the sins of greed and envy. What else had I digested?

My yellow hands were spotted with cowardice. No wonder people always said that I got my hands dirty.

My legs were shrouded in sad shades of grey. Sigh. I am, indeed, on my last legs.

Then, my attention was averted to another body part: my heart had begun oozing out black darts. I was both the aimer and the target in this game of mourning.

I moved my quivering lips, turned cold, cold white, to mouth a question into the mirror,
“Was it worth it in the end?”

The colourful answer stared back leaving me colourless.

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