They hurled him to a desolate corner and dressed themselves as sanguinary mortals to smother his scared buds of snowdrops, and when the sun sung songs in the suburbs, he woke up with crimson pools and cuts all over. And when a twelve spring old irony woke up with autumns all around, he decided to paint his canvas with shades of daffodils and roses, to find more than mere air for another breath. Now when he looks in the mirror, he smiles.
~threnodies of a threadbare tulip~
~ S r i K r i s h n a P S | July 14, 2021 _____________________________________________