Freedom of Dust

Roses are red

Roses are red, ravaging the indifferent view
Puncturing the merely pleasing and the perfunctory,
A grey world vanishes, violently upended by violets
Tarnished the tedium, torn asunder the meek
Gutted by love, the landscape brings forth its life-blood
The river reshapes its temper and dyes the rain
Taunts the rock whose temper needs no transformation
Until fertile fields emerge from the fire-sea

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The Turning

Wavering loyalty
in his wife’s eyes,
swiftly suppressed,
supplanted by cries

as he turns into that
which knows no return,
into that under which
all reason will burn.

Does he see her before
he strikes and is struck down?
Can she blame but the monster,
but the curse on the town?

As the light leaves his eyes,
as her eyes shun the sight,
as they won’t like the answers,
there will be none tonight.

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winter night’s coffee –

the new year’s vice culling done,

indulging the last

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The Epic of [redacted]

Uncannily unrepentant – with no spare glance at the underlying
The unnecessary needling of nightly unease
Forward! He’d told himself, forge on, and they will follow.
And so they do, their sunlight’s beam in the fog of suspicion
But the fog thickens. Thankless crowds, thorns on the hero’s path
An end in sight only in absolutes, resignation to the elements.
Resignation, then? A recurring answer, if one follows the relevant stories
Or double down, and lead down the path till damnation
While the fog thickens further? Similarly frequent.
Equally undesirable. And at every turn
The by-passes beckon: Why not both?
Why not neither? It’s enough now; no more.
One day, the fates fold their cards, the hero leaves
The story unfinished.


>>> Weekend Writing Prompt #85 – Legend (120 words)

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Saturday afternoon mood

Accomplished

Amid the grey

With the day’s work done

But not the day

Anticipation of anticipation

On a cold bare afternoon

Overcast

No chance of sunlight

The streets deserted

Except for the occasional jogger (how, in this weather?)

And the assorted demonstrations nearby (against what this time? no idea)

Silent vacuum

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Comfort

The artificial sound of rain

Paired with tense tinkly music

Promises familiarity, respite from the day’s pains.

 

The window’s open, letting in night air but barely any night sounds.

The neighbourhood’s quiet.

Uncharacteristically quiet.

 

A good mood.

 

In the game, someone carries dead body parts around.

That’s nice.

Warm artichoke tea and a cool breeze, lucidity before bedtime.

But better to close that window before the game’s sound turns disquieting. Anytime now.

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Pearl by the Sea

Awakened splendour,

sundered memory,

hidden the lowly

where the lowlier dwell

 

Spires of wisdom,

mortal solemnity,

languishing hierarchy

awaiting the bell

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heavy humid heat

hour and a half till storm

says the weather app

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Blinds

darkened room

blinds almost closed

summer afternoon

 

lined-up white specks

on the screen

sunlight

 

irritating

the game view

taunting

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Second take

Would it have mattered?

Tossing the blade in the haystack conveniently

‘fore ever cutting but

would she have listened?

Dull blades bring pain to the wielder, so

saving oneself all this pain is the smarter move certainly ­­–

would she have found it dull?

Picking up forsaken arguments out of the rabble of one’s thoughts,

a hopeless endeavor,

a blade in a haystack,

not that hard to find, but if you don’t watch out, it’ll cut you

only for you to present it,

not even cutting, in case it is dull

This is the blade I neglected to use on you,

does it still matter?

 

 

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