"monochromes" poems
You may believe in your fictitious destitution,
You may be adrift in your false desolation,
You may be wandering a path of solitude,
And you may be drowning in ignorance.
I am occasionally condemned as such.
Our isolation like a xerox.
Synonymous of withdrawal into one's self.
Not uncommon, even cherished.
Individuality becomes enveloped.
Becoming our own worst enemies,
Among a sea of monochromes.
Exposed complexion,
Defined blush,
Vulnerable iridescence.
Recognize a promise to identity.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 1:43 AM UTC
What else could make you feel so excited than noticing the yellow lightning upon all monochromes?
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 8:51 PM UTC
Beneath the arch,
among the branches,
the maunder of her eyes
finds noir in an afterimage,
every reflection is unique,
explicit and indivisible,
every reflection is her,
there she looks close
for gracefulness,
in the essays of her skin
and their brazen transparencies,
she enters into her body fable,
the shape of her resembles
the tenor viol: where it widens,
where it narrows,
where it digresses
and monochromes,
she reflects a fragile geography,
a soft cargo, but
an inkling of hurricane,
rendering the fault lines
beautiful and strong,
in supplication tomorrow's explorer
will disturb the patterns
until she's become her own lullaby
Mar 2, 2025
Mar 2, 2025 at 1:16 PM UTC
Trying to escape from the ghosts of the present
Counting every moment as the wrinkles deepen
Looking towards a land undiscovered
Wishing for a movement of the land masses
The air stands still yet the leaves flutter due to a force unseen
Staring into headlights hoping to wash away these monochromes
Windows that look into a world made of ash and trees
Crumbling into a state of acceptance as the bricks stack themselves
Thinking of faces etched into memory with no names
Facts amuse as fiction intrigues
Solid shapes deforming into energy as speed falls into time and distance is but an illusion
Boundaries keeping some in and some out, and the sense of touch is all but lost
Words flowing into an empty canvas through tongues unspoken
As these lines blur into an essence of raw emotion
Through well lit passageways lined with charming smiles hiding the fears that If faced would turn back time
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 8:37 AM UTC
on the edge of darkness.
feline grace beholds,
the little things of nightime.
scrabbling away.
the nose quivers.
pupils dilate.
questing ever questing.
tree boughs, creak and pop
then silence once again.
as the moon reveals,
the tide upon the rise.
nocturnal beings found,
bathed in silverlight.
unworldy and archiac,
in days bright colourings.
but some how, realistic,
in the nightime setting.
faded but majestic.
clothed in monochromes.
different not pathetic.
darkness is their poem.
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 3:35 AM UTC
They say the night is black,
a shadow cloaking the beast that
makes horizons bleed at dusk and
flees her wrath at dawn.
But the night is grey,
life is grey,
a transitory shade,
silver lusterless, passionless like
gleaming blades too long concealed.
Inflections chart themselves across bed sheets,
worksheets, warning labels,
charm their way past sunlight and into
matrimony with patriarchal corners,
vestiges of dark upon dark.
Grey is beautiful.
Sad symphonies tender their resignations,
masterpieces monochromes occupying the dome
of the sky, storm cloud devout
leaving their stations.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
there’s a cold, electronic melancholia in the
crevices of lighted rooms, in the imaginations of
giants, in the suffocating, wondrous monochromes of the night
in whispered, blinding, broken, dull,
in relief maps, in cold hands running alongside climactic surfaces,
in small, imposing shadows—in model ships, dying reeds and houseplants,
pieced-together wolves, as close an imitation as can be dared, in stained glass, dusty
aves and books and windows, closed, and closed and closed and warm;
cables, flooring, displaced, obscured, scratched-out names and labels and figures and
facts: beautiful facts, useless facts, cold and impersonal, lively and running,
i remember the small smile, that slight wave of your hand as you passed by, but never quite
left me.
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 6:01 PM UTC
She celebrated her funeral
Getting wet in the raindrops.
The wounded moths coloured
Her eye lashes red.
The monochromes of
Her own shadow
Clamped her legs in the black sky,
As she tried to fly once again.
Her shadow stood behind her,
Saying, "So even you can dream! "
She shook her head knowing
There's no escape this time.
She smiled as tears rolled down her eyes
When her shadow stabbed her,
Saying, "How dare you dream again! "
Her black blood splattered all over her body,
As she kept smiling palely
Turning her surrounding
Into a combination of binary colours
Of black and white.
She looked up for the last time,
To the little cyan
At the corner of the sky
Which was yet to be mono chromed.
And,
She fell on her knees
For the last time
Releasing every last piece
Of her soul.
And, she understood,
"Death
Is
Cruel
And
Healing
At the same time"
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 12:48 PM UTC