During the last days of November when divine melancholy blends in the crimson horizons, she waits for the dawn and dusk, simultaneously.....
INTROSPECTION
And just as the sunlight slits
through the window bars,
the sapphire fades into the
golden creases of what drapes the window.
It drizzles down the pane, to the eyes
and mixes the green with a tinge of hazel.
The fierceness, the wilderness;
all collapsed, reminisced and glorified
in that one sanctuary.
A speck of snowflake
melts into the clavicle,
sinks deep into the skin,
and benumbs the conscious.
The pale, the faded, the silver,
all buried within.
The winter breathes a sigh
and whispers a quelling spell.
During the last days of November when divine melancholy blends in the crimson horizons, she waits for the dawn and dusk, simultaneously. Draped in a warm, camel-coloured cashmere shawl, she treads along the pavements that are strewn with lifeless yet crisp leaves. Just like she turns the pages of her poetry, the leaves turn their way towards her. The whirling red, the sea of purple, the burned orange and the perplexed ombre; all finding their ways through the cobbled streets and concrete houses, through shimmering lampposts and dark alleys.
It all begins when a light breeze, (the smallest degree of light) sways the fragile leaves off the branches and it seems as if it is raining leaves - a beautiful sight! With every breeze a pond of leaves twirl themselves into a graveyard - an inviting one! A tombstone of scarlet, saffron and russet sets ablaze the silhouettes of solitudes to spread like a forest fire never to be extinguished.
And just when it’s time to drink coffee, it’s as if the caffeine has settled and drenched down the veins, where once rushed stardust and ashes. The bitterness of the coffee takes over the thoughts.
And in the moments of bleakness, she thinks to herself of all that has left, that could be hers at the moment, the way things could have been different, different as in not better but just different. She thinks to herself whether she will be able to name it ever or will it always reside in abstractness, in muses that are scattered here and there, in the pressed leaves inside a book’s page, or in those unsettled, inconvenient and most of all, in the incomplete conversations. There’s this cartilage of so much left unsaid, so much that was never initiated, of regrets asking certain questions, of regrets never asking some. The cascade of people passes by her, but she stays oblivious to of all that is and remains in what her mind lingers on to, what her heart murmurs to and where the nothingness takes her to.
At times, the air smells of cider and at times, it smells of certainty overtaken by confusion.
She looks up at the sky more often than she needs to in an attempt to find the relief. Amidst the swirling twilights, it’s certainly known to her that it takes nothing but little pieces of you to crumble now and then. For once, in a long while you might feel whole but fortunately you know that you will crumble again.
Walking in the distance, “it gets darker, the closer you get.”
The late November, she whispers - when fall and winter together weave their magic with a pinch of scarlet, a dash of saffron and a drop of russet in a puff of icy pearl.
