Lekhoker Onamika

From horizons kissing threads of sunshine on narrow moors.

My Storyteller,

Here's to you Sir. Your naive brutality and marvelous pagodas of white darkness. Here's to your lacerating black sheet of curly hair. Befriend your muse, will you? Did you?

Play the harp, I have dropped out of the boring puzzle games they play. You seem more ductile, more perfumed. Your eyes betray women and a few men and, my God, so honestly. Here, Sir, I give you the name you celebrate so often, I give you the spark you boast of, the charm you wear on your sleeves. Take them but use them not. No, not against me. Don't hold me responsible for the damage made to your roots. Let me confess- I have been dazzled by your inner beauty(the one underneath your clothes).

Mister, your white shirt fades to a colour I don't recognise, a burgundy blue, I guess.
Unchangeable.
What is it like, pray, when the sun turns black and the night a blazing yellow? Tell me. Fake a story,that'll do. I had believed you even when I shouldn't have.
Go ahead.
But sire,you are bleeding-red of exasperation, the dark, pungent indigo of determined fallacy. Selfless? Selfish maybe.
Pardon me. You see, you have breathed venom on my ashes, rained ambiguous monstrosity you called laughter upon my tears. You can gift me poems now and write poetry in my honour. Thank you.

I am waiting, you know. So button your shirt, imbecile. Don't choke me so hard.
Better.
Go on.
I won't be listening forever. Love, Darling, does not disappear fast enough but the kind I thought I have for you vaporised into droplets of broken pearls and poured down like monsoon upon dry eyes. The kind which stayed has managed to linger somewhere deeper inside the dead dungeon of a withered corpse.

Dated: The day the corner of your pen wrote me life.

~Onamika