Older, Wiser & Grey

The cold hours of dawn
Brush the specks of mist away
Hues of stars still playing their jokes

Each stroke rendered futile,
As more emanates from hollow shallow breathing.
From the incipient stalls, of not subtle fruit.
But garish masks.

Ambush.

In a deathly roll, it’s a maelstrom, pandemonium.
Muffled silences grow, as masked figures frame the subject.
The painting complete.

That which you kept inside, and thought no soul could retrieve.
It is deep within, imperceptible, intangible, amorphous.
That last strength, that no words can utter nor hearts can hold.
The earth trembles and asks for identity. Your allegiance.

You ask for nothing, yet it seems too much.
Reticence seems no virtue.

The masquerade revelry comes to life
It breathes its life from you, drawing from,
Every fibre of your being. They spare nothing.
Sans sanity or hope, the subject succumbs.

A pair of faith-adorned eyes fleet.
Their beauty besmirches the stars and
Glows with a morsel of emancipation.
Yet, it lies beyond reach.

What once was, has been taken.
Pain writhes the body motionless.
The mind has a world of its own,
Gone are the half promises and grey lies.
And all this ensues, even before the Sun has risen.