Something like Poetry


she is the kind
that mourns when the
days turn red –
’cause the clouds could not
cover up a wound the
sky wished it hid.
she is the kind
that paints such pictures
with nothing but her words.
quite often she turns red
when her words are read.
one too many times I
ponder between the lines
and comprehend all that
she hopes I never will.
‘I have lost.’
she says –
all that she has drawn
with the tip of her quill.
and so she whispers –
that she will never sketch her love.

‘No. Never. Ever.’
‘what if one day that leads him away from me?’

She stares at me with such disdain
as I –
laugh at her predicament.
yet unbeknownst to her
I wonder –
if whatever now that she
has confessed has played
a role pervasive in
distancing  myself from her.
like how she calls
her paper and her quill –
the proprietors.
I wonder if I have the right
to call myself –
a victim.
as much as she considers
her subjects as their prey.
she is nothing but a casualty in here –
a helpless being trapped in a
spell weaved by letters and hyphens.
and me –
only a ghost in her head
that ceases all existence;
disappears into thin air,
when she yearns solace.
amid the solitude gifted,
by her dear friends and dearer foes.
But in my thoughts I am only –
A prisoner of choice,
A casualty of consequence.
Or am I just a stooge,
who is blind to the difference that is subtle
between destiny and fate?
this isn’t insufferable as of yet,
but slowly it is crawling towards indifference.

2 thoughts on “Casualty”

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