Wordy kaleidoscopes
Into that otherworldly
dusk-light, tributes to
a Jasmine-haunted
lucent late evening
Our now-cimmerian
story just being poured
out letter by letter as though
by a poet from the clouds
Poetry is that purple saree
hanging from our ceiling
fan; yes that same one sold
faulty by a thrice-greedy
salesman in the shop, whose
name sometimes flashes
into my mind at random
prompts by jasmine
notes in brightly lit malls;
Dimly lit temples, terrible
Purple hues of party
Balloons; poetry is those
Sadly tangled syllables,
anklets round your feet
I held on to while a
purple knot on your neck
remained lodged in my words;
These needless pages;
and all the holes that I ever
dug to bury all the whys
Poetry is questions from my
lost childhood, silent alliterations
to silence wordless whispers
in the wind
If I were good enough: for you,
for us and for all the poets
known and unknown, would
kaleidoscopes still be a deep-purple
(As posted to a Facebook poetry group Singpowrimo under the title: what is love if not a lance to drain sweet scabs of purple pain)
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