R
Prathyusha Madhu
Grade XII GPS(I)
a single rose rises from the earth,
red ink, dripping down its petals
that fall softly onto the brown
blending, like blood
on skin
(is it love, that paints
or
poison that taints)
I look at it with eyes,
fluttering;
a normal visual field
is 180 degrees,
a half circle
yet
the rose takes every inch of
s p a c e that remains
and I feel my lungs constrict
like loose strings pulled together
or the tightening of a cord
and I cannot b r e a t h e
because it is too heavy, I
cannot carry the weight
of this truth that will
never set me free
(is this what it
feels to be
global
public
school
asphyxiated by
nothingness)
I feel the wheels (of memories)
turn inside me
I am shrinking, my body
is slowly going back in time
and I scream, but it is futile.
I stand in a field (of red roses)
dusted with white
dots that fly (away along with my dreams)
everything feels hazy
but I feel warmth (of a mothers hold)
caress my forehead
and touch my cheeks, parting
with a smile (of sympathy)
the hand lets go and I am
alone and it is dark
and grainy
I must ask one last
time,
the red that envelops
my heart
is it love,
that paints
or poison
that taints.
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