8 views
time and her aging thespians.
The peach tree washed my hair with her branches,
Delicate ribbons sprouted decently,
The petite thorns devoured the curls,
Nearly like time that drove seasons afar.
All I could paint when I thought about time was a ravenous grotesque beast running over lives, devouring the past, present, and future,
Almost like those black holes,
Empty and full,
Space and time mere toys in the hood,
Their monstrosity not to be endured even by the pages of dark romance.
It was different for the young girl in the tree tho’,
Time never bothered her,
She was ripening in content with each passing breeze,
Swaying herself to the rhythm of the beasts.
And as my head flew above the earth and into the space,
A ripe peach fell on the mud,
Her cheeks a bit stained now,
She must be lost,
Her arms knocking on the gates of adulthood,
The green fading away into raw brown and the scent of the rain,
Perfumed past now rotten present,
She must hate the verity of faith.
After all, time was the stage,
And us, the aging thespians.
© Poorna
Delicate ribbons sprouted decently,
The petite thorns devoured the curls,
Nearly like time that drove seasons afar.
All I could paint when I thought about time was a ravenous grotesque beast running over lives, devouring the past, present, and future,
Almost like those black holes,
Empty and full,
Space and time mere toys in the hood,
Their monstrosity not to be endured even by the pages of dark romance.
It was different for the young girl in the tree tho’,
Time never bothered her,
She was ripening in content with each passing breeze,
Swaying herself to the rhythm of the beasts.
And as my head flew above the earth and into the space,
A ripe peach fell on the mud,
Her cheeks a bit stained now,
She must be lost,
Her arms knocking on the gates of adulthood,
The green fading away into raw brown and the scent of the rain,
Perfumed past now rotten present,
She must hate the verity of faith.
After all, time was the stage,
And us, the aging thespians.
© Poorna
Related Stories
