Cherry Flavoured Antacids
Prose, Poetry and Random Musings.

Scars from Nature

Category: , By Homer Simpson!

Fire,
It caresses the paper gently, tentatively.
Flicks it conscious, stripping it of monotonicity.
Blushing purple and camouflaging into grey violets
Turns bolder, twisting and flirting, over and under.
Exploring every corner, snatching the virginity
Kissing every fold. Feeling alive. Feeling awake.
Stains the edges; Tender, bruising and dismantling.
Bursting through the paper, consuming victory.
Storms into full bloom, aroused, smelling ruins.
Parallel to a fiery flower hell-bent on domination.
Twisting fibre to black, crimped and ebony lace.
Enrages the syllables encrypted with love and grief.
Rages and dances to its own pace and mocking beat.
Mesmerizing with its beauty, destroying with its heat.

Light,
It is harsh but then shines on the smooth truth glaringly.
Illuminating lined faces, highlighting numerous shadows;
Under sleepless eyes; Fingers...numb and restless;
Plays indifferently and occasionally with the frayed
Edges of dull magazines. Notes. The cheap plastic rocker,
Rocks in a row; Shifting seats, tapping feet, hardened lips.
Sighs that speak a thousand words in the pitch black;
Make up the nervous chorus of strangers from all walks of life.
Life is nothing. All shades of grey. Colors invert with light.
Brought together, inexplicably by luckless circumstance.

Water,
Its sugar-coated, conscious, nimble and heat-infused
Sharpened images, Abashed souls leave me confused.
A prisoner, lost, defeated, abducted and abused.
Mindless, I am. Battered carnation, degraded and refused.
Shameless, lack-lustre victimization and they're amused.
Wish to stop this crying, cease this aching. Blood perfused.
Lust leaves me broken as a token. Intoxicating presence prevued.
Silence is not suffering; Absence Is empowering the confused.

Air,
Desire and intentions blooming like malaria
Soul Infected and driven sick through and through.
My sane salvation, I lay inflamed in your seizing wake.
By the pyrexia. That is you. The Saviour. That is you.
You're burning. An abstract pounding in my churned head.
The hesitant shallow breath when I am buried. Long Dead.
And one fine day, I'll stop trying to rediscover.
From This fever.That is you. The sickness. That is you.

PS: Very Random.