The coffee grows cold on my desk
                                                            ­ (maybe if I leave it there
                                                           ­      long enough, it will
                                                            ­               evaporate).

Brush strokes fill
my mind,
thoughts fill
the canvas
the Vision translates
itself.

                                             ­                                                                 ­                                    You bite your lips
                                                            ­                                                                 ­                            to tease me…
                                                             ­                                                                 ­                    Can red do justice
                                                         ­                                                                 ­                            to the cruelty of
                                                                ­                                                                 ­                          your words?

You stare emotionlessly
into space…
Can blue capture
the coldness in
your eyes?

                                                          ­                   You twist your curls
                                                           ­                        michieviously…
                                                  ­                               Will black signify
                                                         ­                        The darkness of
                                                              ­                       your soul?

                                                          ­                   It is my magnum opus.

- Vijayalakshmi.R.
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish