Crimson as passion
Blood of rebels
Love not of roses
And burgundy wine
But dense and strong
With the spirit of strife.
Will it change the course
Of our human history?
See, how we remain trapped
In the power corridors
Every drop shed, evaporates
Without leaving a trace!
All efforts, a lost crusade!
My broken heart, an artifact
In a spectacular box intact
Lying in tarnished pieces
With crumbling petals of roses
A Babushka doll, now faded
Holding a ring, long discarded
Stale memories wrapped
In tissue paper yellowed
Bury them all with me
When my tired soul flees!
In the darkest hearth of my soul
It rears it’s ugly head again
This despondency of
Being different;
Burning realms of loneliness
Engulf me in flames
I blister, bleed;
Sweat, tears of memories
Deeply impressed lies
Like an intricately coiled
Venomous snake in my bed!
It will not hurt
What you don’t know?
Truth wrapped in muslin
Pulsates gently
Waiting to birth
To sound the death knell
Of sweet ignorance
Blissful innocence
As the soul soaks in
Lies and tales
Appeasing the mind
But stealing the heart
Of the pure joy of knowing!
You are the book
Nestled on my chest
Heaving in deep sleep
A story embedded
In my thoughts, as I go
About daily chores
Impatient to trace
Inquisitive finger tips
On gravely carved scripts
Turning over pages
Revealing secrets
That made me shudder
In anticipation of none other
But the distant momen when
I will curl up with you in bed
Blue Pen Strokes 