Q u i d a m

Crudity of colours

Rainbows have seven colours,

My life has one,

When it's hard to distinguish between them,

I fall hard twice to ablaze the new norm,

Or infinity of colours emerging in white glasses,

I love the peachy black.

You know, they say there's no colour with that shade.

But I don't want to find out the withering

Fall, with the leaves rusting and the yellowish darkest

phase to come, for me to get out the indigo pale.

As the creasing of tinting windows.

I savour my last seconds in the pale morning,

where the earthy smell of flamboyant pour me,

In & out, just like the drenching rangers with the oily pallet.

Rushing mob to catch their breath,

Or the blanket of misty fogs are scratching

their musty grounds, I hold my breathing for once—

Looking over the bleak midwinter,

Where the four brick walls stood high,

Reminiscing the old green cassettes,

Life isn't all black and white,

My shade of colour only stays

Grey is my love, furnished with ashes.

I detest the taste of salty dreads,

So, I close my eyes—

& walk out, leaving my ashes of the past behind.

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