Brazen melancholia doodled on Aurora’s brume
As scintillating daylight peeped
Initially befuddled, pale.
Those feet curled at the tingling sunbeams,
But its warmth had faded yesterday.
November sun greeted with a marigold tinge,
Rays like its petals, bathed in Spring.
Mistrals hummed of tales unheard,
Kissed in cinnamon and spice.
Petals sans the redolence,
Swathed in threads of nostalgia.
What left me with cold feet? Groggy-eyed, culpable?
The ravens mocking on the ledge
Reminisced the letters I wrote –
And burned, watching the ashes,
Buoyed up by moth-eaten selves.
I could have packed bags and left at sundown;
Save the nudge of your wet palms lingered on me
Like an illicit appeal.
Sunshine creeps on my moss-laden mezzanine,
Decamps into a rainbow on the shattered glass.
You conceive it like a mosaic,
Beautiful when razed.
For me, it is but a broken past.
15 November 2014