Blood
Constant and ever present,
Unacknowledged in its gravid potential
To contain hope for a life
Long and fruitful
To offer insecurity and fear
When vitiated,
To bring conclusion
At the ceasing of the pattern -
Systole... diastole... systole... diastole...
The internal lifelong beating
Of the rhythm
We have danced to
All these years
Sanguine
Is the colour
I perceive
When I close my eyes
And stare at the sun
Now setting
I am trying to recall
(The events at the end
Of another perfect day)
But they are fractured
And incomplete
Broad brushstrokes
Of significant happenings
Meld
With the minutiae
Of the banal
I hope for a detailed memoir
Giving rise to a transcendent contentment
As the list of the day
Is checked off one event at a time
(Where musings
Of this little history
Would give rise
To a divine and satiated pleasure
Replete in the perfection
Of each action that has
Lead to this singular point)
But instead
There is a flooding of colours -
The blinding core of the sun
White
The clouds paying homage to its western passage
Yellow... orange... pink...
The oceans and the sky
Blue
The trees and the fields
Green
The approaching night
Black
And though
It might not seem so
To any casual observer,
There is a
Beautiful congruence here
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