Title- Noone dost dare to take a ride, deep thro the blue seas, where mine poems hide Picture is my eye Word meanings- Dost- does Thro- through Mine- my Twixt- between Orbs- eyes Thee- you Mi amour- my love Thro - through Thine- yours Thy-
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How many times have you, seen the sunset? I've, never been out so often, I haven't seen them for as long as I'd ever want to. I've seen red moons, I've seen blue skies; I've never seen an amalgamation of the two. Perhaps the skies don't want to be painted with the colours, perhaps the skies never seemingly can blush a combination. It's something, you might not understand. This is because colours are too familiar to your eyes. Ask me, and those who know how to cope up with blank canvases, we've always been curious about colours and their relationships.
My life too has been, a white feather. Once fallen from the plumage of a random hibernating twitter. Yet isn't the blank white certainly calm and serene to the soul? The peace it sprinkles over the heart, isn't it something you can never afford? Though white crayons never worked well; but black canvases are rare too. Till you promise me to find one, I promise you your pack full of colours would reduce to hurt your fingers as you make use of tiny pieces; vulnerable to void, yet I would be as new as your freshly disarmed soul, and at the end it would be only my white left to splash itself over that excruciating black canvas. That day, you won't be able to stop me from painting a night sky. My, night sky.
I've been, once stained by two dominant colours. Red; a crimson red you might think I'm in love with, giving up on himself, raging wars, waging scars, fighting his own bloodlines. Never trusting me enough, yet never letting me go. And Blue; what do I say? The most serene soul being him. A calmness, a sanguinity runs through him, asking me to hold his hand, for he knew his life is short, and if my white faded, a fake smile could ignite an indigo sheen over his face, how could I deny to be blessed for once? They've been the only two dominant colours over my feather; the only two colours to have stained me, to have me healed without an unwanted touch.
You see, Red skies and Blue nights, they rarely seem to be together. Just for a strict period of time, the evenings while you move hand in hand with someone not supposed to be. When you kiss red draperies of your passionate love right through a soul as numb as a blue winter; not known to you. What predominates the other, do you know?
I do. I am a witness. Probably, you won't trust me. Probably it's just another under-aged soul talking about the same old stories of love you've heard. But, as I always say, every story doesn't end happy. If I've seen blues and reds; my skies have been grey too. It's just, that I never want to bring the hideous clouds of gloom to my eyes. True, they hold a beauty in themselves, the grey of pain and bleakness is one of the wonders to have been blessed with, but when you've been white for a little longer than you planned, you certainly don't want the black to be onto you. You simply want to be the one to bring the black out of its captivity. And sometimes; on your way, you find a vibgyor. I found mine. A rainbow of, two oddities.
Someday, sometime, it did happen. Somewhere I saw my experimented combinations of blue and red. Somehow, they were beautiful. I tell no lies; I seek no references, yet I always say, I lack adjectives with objectives, and all of a sudden, 'beautiful' seems the most 'beautiful' word to describe. For white paints, black is beautiful too. For white, the colour of white gets soiled easily. But then, a smudge of memory is beautiful too.
It was when, one day Red came rushing over to the green park where I have often spent my afternoons. The flowers behind us, they were pink, with speckles of carnation red. And, I can't forget the sunflower yellows. He handed over a blank paper to me, and asked me, "I've to write a poetry to win this. Ethical English poetry. How do I do it? I don't write poetries. I'm going to lose this. Write it for me?"
And the Blue sitting right by the bench in front of me, turned around and placed a white peacock feather he had brought from his foreign country. White, wasn't it just beautiful and unique? It was, so was the blue in his eyes; the blue over his hand from the ink he had brushed upon a few moments ago.
He said, "You've written songs and symphonies. You can't write a four line poetry?"
"But songs don't have boundaries. These themes, I've to work with them. I can't limit my thoughts."
And I? I could never dare to interrupt their struggles. So I rather made a mistake to have plucked a flower with a blade of thorn. Being stuck inside my flesh, I wanted someone to get it out.
I won't deny, the pain was as tormenting as being young. I held Red's hand, the injured thumb being treated by him, and the held one being embedded into his skin, my nails being sharp enough to make him bleed as I tightened my hold, and that was when a nail broke; that was when I was intruded by his colour. The white feather beneath being polluted by a drop of my blood and two drops of his, yet the reflex of Blue's denial made him smudge over the spilled blood, the ink interfering his hand got mixed with whatever dripped over the peacock's remain.
You see, a slight hint of blue, a few drops of red, and a canvas of white could develop the most ethereal colour, a colour I might have chosen beyond black, lilac. The shades of a darker lavender lilac, weren't they the result of red and blue being one? A colour I've adorned, a colour I can allow to disturb my white, a colour being my preference; this fusion of Red and Blue seemed, and still seems to be the most beautiful to me.
When the time seemed still, when we were mesmerized by the experiments, a sudden string of words opened my mind and I wrote a poetry seemingly making no sense, yet winning him what he desired; titled bluebird. Yet breathing meaning to it, it made use of blues of the ocean waters reflecting through the ink, the maroon fronds of water lillies, the lilac of the sunsetting sky and yes; a white bird drinking blues of the waters beneath, kissing lightly the red blossoms and flying high in the sky.
By the time, I was supposed to be named in the honour of my memories, I chose the title 'bluebird' since we knew from that day; Blue worked well over me, whereas the Red was losing it's dominance bit by bit. And by the time next Christmas arrived, I had been plagued by a blue winter, the Red having me lost completely, perhaps, graving beneath the earth, his corpse lying bare. While I knew, the Blue never could promise me a lifetime, still, he promised me a smile. "I have a few months to live by. The smoke I've breathed eats me from inside. It's a cancer, I invited myself clogging my lungs. You tell me, will you be the smile I need to bring back my own?"
I knew I couldn't disagree a summer in someone's short period life. Yet then, I didn't know, I had blindly accepted his colour; I had blindly accepted death with a deal.
And today, while I was getting used to the blues in my life; the blue being my pride, the only colour I am left with, the only hope of another lilac, from miles away, he called me again, he shrieked my name, after two years, he broke out the secret of his departure, he says the canvas is coloured for just another month.
Just another month. Just one more month.
I responded. With a cry, a silent cry, of choked lies and broken breaths. For five long minutes, who can deny, all he wanted to hear were my distorted breaths, all he wanted to hear repeatedly for the next ten minutes was my voice chanting his name.
Still when he punched my sheets to crumple them with numerous questions, "What do you say, do you really hate the days? Do you still feel letting go seems harder? Could you let me go? Would you fly away tomorrow if the skies seem blue? Would you not be afraid of the heights? Will you? For me? Will you stay alive? For him?"
All I had to offer was a silence. A silence hiding all his answers. Sometimes it's harder to let go. But you see, it's hard to stick to something that wishes to go. You can't let your love be a cage; you can't bound what is meant to leave. Whatever you agreed to in the past, shall counter itself today. You don't let the moonlight make you sad; the nights you once loved, they do make you black all of a sudden, and as I said, this white does not want to be left grey. Sometimes, the days are all you need to make you believe, you still are white and bright for peace of your mighy. Today wasn't a good day, but tomorrow will be; it will be, as soon as you believe it. As soon as you accept, the colours would have to end in those glass bottles but their stains would never leave.
After all, I promised to stay behind, I promised to have existed longer than any other coloured crayon, a white crayon I am, you won't use me today, but tomorrow, tomorrow your nights might be lacking a moon, and then you can pick me up, break me into two halves and draw a moon for yourself. I promised.
Just another month. And then I'd say goodbye to the Blue as to the Red of my life. I'd be left, with the title of a poetry. Till then I promise, I'd try to exist to find a purpose; till then, I'd look out for my black canvas.