Her Canvas





Perhaps her canvas was never ready to be painted in my colours…

 

A young boy I was, back then, when she entered my life,

A girl as sweet as can be, lovely no less than love itself.

Stepping lithely over the earth, a young fawn at heart,

Painting the world in vibrancy and beauty.

 

“Behold!” Rationality said, “Do not be lured, for temptation is Lucifer’s stronghold.”

Heed I did not, for otherwise said my heart,

For the canvas was no longer bare, the void filled with silent glee,

The centre stage now occupied by an entity of magnificence.

 

Hopes ran high, dreams enveloping my soul,

Clothed by affection, intoxicated to limits unknown,

Eyes, now a mere seeker of the angelic figure,

The silhouette committed to memory, as if I were an artist.

 

Time flowed without exception, I was still caught in a reverie,

Until a realisation dawned upon, a heavy apprehension,

Some people are more equal than others,

For some get to choose, while others don’t,

I clearly belonged to the latter, a mere puppet in Cupid’s hands.

 

For that smile, that embrace, just the truth of the moment,

Each emotion ostensible, joy superficial,

Pleasure just a castle in the air,

True reciprocation seemed ever so distant,

Bliss seemed just a pipedream never to be fulfilled.

 

Relieved of encumbrance, free of obligation,

She flowered in the lands of life, unimpeded by constraints,

While I, a wilted flower, in the precincts of the same, trudged on,

Condemning myself to the unrelenting grapple of sorrow,

An indefinite hiatus from love.

 

Legend says hell hath no fury like a lover scorned,

But I do not concur, for a scorned lover still loves without exception,

His affection was unquestioned and will remain so,

If not, then he wasn’t spurned at all.

 




So now, drowned in desires of the moment,

To look for an escape from this interminable anguish,

In glasses of coloured drinks, and little spheres of red and white,

I lay down my torment; memories tug me back,

But despondent, with the taste of tears more familiar than water,

Gaping through the window at the conceived impression,

Of the flawless beauty, I realise,

 

Perhaps her canvas was never ready to be painted in my colours…

 

~ Aniruddha Bhattacharjee | Edited by Afreen Zeb

 


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