the lush lip of
a dewy petal, suede and pale,
bruises are a hazard that blares
sharply in diffuse fragrance,
crushed veins, a slowly drooping head …
shamelessly to be discarded by the eye.
the flower has more in common
with the grave beneath it
than with the feet that trod above.
one keeps running from a given,
the other knows:
there’s nowhere else to go.
Copyright © 2019 Devina Singh
When you were a toddler, little more than a babe, you and your younger sister played in the playpen in the kitchen/office downstairs. It was only the two of you then, the other three would come later, ushered in with the twenty-first century.
Your mother was frustrated half the time, still, a bit overwhelmed having married your father two years before, then you and your sister came almost one after the other. Adjusting to another household, a new set of parents, and helping out in the fast food place they ran, a pace and life so much different to the one she’s always known. You wouldn’t know this, not for years and years to come will you join the dots and realize her quiet bravery.
Ahem. The Blue Tit or Cyanistes caeruleus – sporting vibrant colours of blue, yellow, white and green – are commonly found in Western Asia and all over the UK, exceptions being some Scottish islands. They’re fond of woodlands, hedgerows, parks, and gardens. They love to munch on insects, seeds, and nuts while they Netflix and chill.
Really, though. What did you think this post was about? Hmm?
Filed under Prompts, Writing