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 Dec 2020 Grey Rose
Remy
~Colors~
 Dec 2020 Grey Rose
Remy
She was blue. Color of the live-like sky.
He was red. Shed blood and tears like no other.
She was cool, he was a disaster.
They were both told, it could never happen.
Then there was purple. A very gorgeous color.
Purple tells a story.
A story created from its father and mother.
It was born from disaster, tragic, and laughter.
But was made from the best colors,
doesn’t need a happily ever after.
 Dec 2020 Grey Rose
Ash C
The ground caves way as it lets me in.
Almost as if I was meant to be here in tangles of grass.
With the bugs
With the sun beaming down on my taught skin of age.
My ribs itch my skin
And my eyes watch clouds and stars until they dissolve with the beauty of it all.
The trees sing, and I listen with shriveled ears until I no longer listen.
I sink, and sink, and sink,
And then, can I finally sleep in peace.
 Nov 2020 Grey Rose
Ayesha
this house reeks of joy tonight
a teary-eyed girl— laughing
the gas heater and its sizzling flames
crimson socks with golden stripes
and a woman eating a slice of strawberry cake
a boy revising his lessons,
a man listening to news
the sound of oven and the roasting chicken
a boy making jokes
an old woman, on her rocking chair, smiling
— sipping tea

and the lights flicker off— the oven passes out
but the silky strands of fire in the heater keep swaying about
— burnt shadows on the creamy walls.
roast rests uncooked in the blazing heat
and the girl gets tired of laughing
— maybe it’s the sleep.
and her eyes ache
— maybe it’s the sleep.
the boy puts away his books, stretching his limbs by the fire
woman places her blood-stained plate aside
and the boy runs out of jokes
—maybe it’s the sleep.

but the heater keeps hissing
and gas fills up the room—
air packs up her bags and leaves, unannounced
something heavy slithers in and out our lungs.
heat and suffocation drip out this overfilled room
the roast waits, patiently, to be cooked
and slumber sinks deep in our bones
and our lights go off—

and though the flame twists and turns
—no one sees her
and the roast screams
but only the metal walls hear.
this house reeks of a peaceful joy
and the old woman dozes off to sleep
the girl covers up her feet
the boy yawns and hides his face under a pillow
and the news go on but no one listens
and only the heater stays awake in this house
— reeking of a flammable joy.

and the roast curls—
the roast curls up in his deathless form.
flames and deathlessness and death.
 Nov 2020 Grey Rose
InkHarted
The well I dwell in
Is beyond your rope
the pulley cannot bear my weight
no bucket reach me to send up my dreams
no receiver to read them anyway
As I linger in the depths that I chose not to be in
I hope that one day ill be found
to be carried in a carriage and not in a casket
is one out of the many I would dream
t'was sweeter than a candy the water I sink in
A pleasure that cost my life
time has made it salty
as the slumber approaches me soon
If I jumped I was stupid
If I was pushed I deserve to be here
but what if I was pulled
the journey now ends
and the roar will settle
and I will go into the night
 Nov 2020 Grey Rose
Ayesha
"I can stop whenever I want," I thought.

Days pass on in a blink or two, nights even lesser
Sometimes they linger to catch their breath
while the moon sails like a leaking, exhausted raft—
forever rowing, never moving— in a silent sea
And even if I could grab hold of the sky
and spin her till a peachy blush lit up her face
what good would it do to this melancholy land?

When a grief-stricken snake banged at my door, one stormy night,
I let him in for his toothless, shivering lips
—blue like cold himself—
became the very cause of my liquifying heart;
what could the piteous reptile be offered but
a chalice of fresh, steaming, crimson blood
He gave me his ruby smile and I tied it around my neck
How do you repay such love— how so
if not by surrendering your own doomed flesh?

Did I, or did I not
Roam about narrow alleys of ancient cities housed with words?
make home with wounded rugs left
in places even orphaned kittens avoided
—slept like an unborn child through sunless hours of dark's embrace
Swam through tireless waters—
with a pillowcase filled with tales
Crowned by impressed kings in some lands,
robbed by faceless folks in others.
Carried a plank or two when stories stopped earning me food

All worth another flip of the unheard page
Did I or did I not then forget it all—

As winter moved on to the land next door
sky stole away the very snow she had once abandoned;
lifted the frosty veil off her sun's flushed face
But even as fox gloves and lilies opened their arms,
I let the snake stay in my castle walls
sent out an army and fought wars against stars
when he said he deplored the light
He grew up fast, developed a habit of hissing—

And the neighbourhoods passed like ecstatic tides
left behind by unstopping ships

The moon keeps chasing his blooming sun,
never too far from her rays
and they kiss in the mornings and kiss in the dusks
And the sky steals quick glances at sea,
as he smiles knowingly
The snake fills up a goblet of wine,
feasting upon treys filled with meat—roasted and boiled and baked

And I stumble through empty streets, vomiting out all but him—
Vomiting out all that’s left of me—

"I can stop whenever you want," he whispers.
 Nov 2020 Grey Rose
Shy
Breathe
 Nov 2020 Grey Rose
Shy
You were
My sigh of relief
And now
You’re gone
And I’m sitting here
Gasping for air
All this war and yet, there is nothing I would rather be.

I have grown to appreciate,
            as a nonpartisan–
            a silent sommelier–
the subtle earthy notes of irony with which
my deflated ego scolds my hollow spine.

I know my own hypocrisy, my instability, my naivete.

I have been raised in the midst of myself–
I carved and nailed these philosophies together to make trellises
around which my elastic grapevine limbs have learned
to wrap and coil and hoist themselves toward the sun.

I have built myself,
and I, alone, tend to my vineyard.

There are distortions in these wooden lattices,
and there are seasons when the grapes grow sour
or the vines do not flower
at all,
but the crop is resilient and the wood does not break,
and there is enough sunshine here
in the summertime to sustain
and to yield something complexly beautiful because it has been weak,
and it has known the cold.

I have built myself,
and I, alone, tend to my vineyard.

There are plots of land far more fertile than this one,
foundational structures far sturdier and more symmetrical,
grapes far sweeter and more robust of flavor,
but there is no wine I would rather have flood my veins;
there is nothing I would rather be.
i wonder when i'm ever gonna choose to write in meter of my own free will.
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