Colour of Grief
Grief is timeless and so is loss
they do not rush to the end
they just change colour;
when she seeks refute in the denial of the loss
beneath her swollen soreness of the eyes
after those sleepless nights of endless tears
the colour is violet;
when she grapples at the midnight sky
wishing secretly to roll back the time
shattered mind drapes the hue of cloud for companionship
the colour is indigo;
when she warms up to the bygone days
dreams of the past stares blank at the present
last shreds of the broken memories promises to accompany
the colour is blue;
when she envies him, for leaving the table early
silent shouts protests of leaving her behind
soul had changed brushes, from love to lost to selfish vanity
the colour is green;
when she take that unread book off the shelf
he had always planned to read,
the pages never turned though, resident dust rolled off the covers on her palm
the colour is yellow;
when the mornings are over, after-noon
her middle-parted oiled hair is let loose to dry,
the sun shines high on the once-vermillion strained perfect parting
the colour is orange;
grief never left the house
it lives in the folds of his old used clothes,
by the bed, beneath the linen, waiting for a rumble to rush out in open
the colour is red;
the colour of grief is the rainbow
when viewed in the reflection of the last droplets of the untimely wintry rain
Bitter, resilient and etched to the memories of the lost sunshine.
Grief is timeless and so is loss
they do not rush to the end
they just change colour;
when she seeks refute in the denial of the loss
beneath her swollen soreness of the eyes
after those sleepless nights of endless tears
the colour is violet;
when she grapples at the midnight sky
wishing secretly to roll back the time
shattered mind drapes the hue of cloud for companionship
the colour is indigo;
when she warms up to the bygone days
dreams of the past stares blank at the present
last shreds of the broken memories promises to accompany
the colour is blue;
when she envies him, for leaving the table early
silent shouts protests of leaving her behind
soul had changed brushes, from love to lost to selfish vanity
the colour is green;
when she take that unread book off the shelf
he had always planned to read,
the pages never turned though, resident dust rolled off the covers on her palm
the colour is yellow;
when the mornings are over, after-noon
her middle-parted oiled hair is let loose to dry,
the sun shines high on the once-vermillion strained perfect parting
the colour is orange;
grief never left the house
it lives in the folds of his old used clothes,
by the bed, beneath the linen, waiting for a rumble to rush out in open
the colour is red;
the colour of grief is the rainbow
when viewed in the reflection of the last droplets of the untimely wintry rain
Bitter, resilient and etched to the memories of the lost sunshine.
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