Instead of yielding the sword
Warmed by the afternoon sun,
My fingertips busily string leaves-
One testimony more to his victory.
In his victory, to see mine.
Anyone could have easily mistaken her for a wax figure – her slouched back as she sat in the setting sun. The street lamps still intact flickered on like a child unwilling to get up in the morning. She was almost a silhouette. The dying day barely let anything to be distinct or delve into the details, because that is where they said the devil was.
Sapphire, azure, crimson, gold – the sky was a wonderful palette today – if only she could take a paintbrush and dip it in the heaven, perhaps a few drops would trickle down into her life.
She was always told that she had the hands of an artist. She held them up, studying each crease and every turn. She tried hard to recall the last time they caressed a paintbrush or it coaxed her mind to drip with ideas. The fact that she could not almost made her laugh at the mockery of her life.
“I really would love some ginger tea today.” The door opened. He sat down. She got up. The strainer was waiting to be held.
Echoes in the dim, empty hall.
A grey of day sweeping through the dusty windows.
With a broomstick
I sweep the broken shards of praise
That the world had shattered at him.
Careful not to crunch any one,
Because their rainbows are all the rainbows I have.
And I place them next to the weave
Of laurel I spent spinning for him
When I could have instead woven one for me.