A Tangle of Weeds

I stood staring
(for what seemed like two moons and a half of my life with you)
at my colourless hands
after I had murdered the moon
in stoic silence
on one fated full moon night.
Then, I exited the scene
rubbing my pellucid palms
over my sangria eyes
as if doing so would
make them catch on
each other’s pathetic colours.
Oh, the naivety of a fugitive heart
on a forsaken criminal night!

Do you see my bloodshot eyes?
I think not!
Because I have learnt to
camouflage the pain in my heart
and the rage in my head
(which are essentially the same colour as that of my blood, only the hues subtly differ)
with the calm in my voice
that shares its colour
with that of the nascent moon
now flowing freely
in my maverick veins

images (19)


Image Credit: Google Images

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