Of Black

There is beauty to the colour black.
It somehow holds within
Everything that other colours,
Bright and soft,
Fail to contain.
Black has, to it,
A rough, used feel
That tells a million stories
Of people who feel deeply
And live to tell the tale.
Black is the honorary colour
Worn by lovers, poets, and mourners alike,
For it is they who have hearts
That have been chafed and mishandled,
And thrown onto the black ground.



Slanting golden rays
Filtered through leaves
Highlighting bright
Against darkest tar
Of our path.
You and I walk.
Wrapped in warm
Cocooning silence,
Dragonfly children
Floating around our toes
And the sky in five directions
And a solid bed of ground,
You and I walk.
Till the molten gold
Dwindles to a dark light
And all that is left
Are the twinkling lights of souls
And the still-stretching path,
You and I walk.

Fireflies in Bubbles

Unlikely pair,
No one would have imagined
That they would make sense.
No one ever thought
Of putting them together.
But when Fate took matters
Into her own hands
And made them meet,
It wasn’t explosive
Or beautiful
Or any of the other words
That so called perfect couples
Were called.
It was, however,
Alcohol induced childhood,
Love borne in mason jars,
Innocence mixed with innocence,
Like fireflies trapped
In rainbow soap bubbles.