As usual, I was
lying down supinely
against the prickly yellow grass gazing
at the evening sky.
The sun was flattened
against the blue sky,
forcing its red tint
and eventually cover the whole expanse
like an epidemic that starts
with a man coughing blood
and ends with rotten skeletons
spread around the town
like molten cheese smeared on a toast.
Engrossed in my own world of morbid fantasies,
I never took notice of a man sneaking up on me.
Without uttering a word,
without sparing me a glance,
he sat next to me forsaking his,
what I later noticed,
white stick to the mercy of microscopic cannibals.
His eyes, seemed to me as if,
were dead if not deader than a conqueror's conscience.
Neither uttered a syllable,
as we lapsed into the comfortable embrace
of silence contrary to the one
I shared with her,
which constantly reminded me
of being placed in a morgue
next to Jane Austen's still beautiful corpse.
Months passed and the year grew old,
the trees around me
had shed their cloak,
to reveal the sagging bark and starved bony body.
We were still there, he and I,
staring at nothing,
enjoying the peaceful silence
brought upon by companionship.
After what seemed a while into that evening,
he spoke in a soft tone," What does it look like, the sky."
And with a throaty chuckle
my voice rumbled out of my mouth
bringing out warm carbon dioxide
with every word being uttered," It looks like a cold war."
He smiled not taking his grey eyes off me,
eyes that for the first time showed some semblance of life in them.
The sun, I continued, is red and the sky is blue,
both flattened against each other
not mixing well on the eternal evening canvas,
the scene looks like
a pail of mineral water half filled with
overcooked vegetable oil.
Reminds me of a neglected child's endeavour
to gain everyone's acknowledgement,
which he craved since the inception of his existence.
Bottling up long forgotten emotions
behind the veneer of contentment came easy to him.
I felt a comforting palm on my hand
and closed my eyes.
Nearby, I could feel a new leaf sprouting on a dead tree.
What does red look like?
An inquiring tone reeking of inquisitive excitement
registered in my mind,
for a moment sealing off my poetic eloquence
(If I ever had any)
and try as I might,
I wasn't able to formulate words.
His lack of sight had robbed me of my speech,
and the silence wasn't so peaceful anymore.