Words vs. Strokes

I sit here and write about your painting.
A painting in which you so meaningfully
Hid the meaning.
What was it that you were thinking?
As you halted your paintbrush mid-stroke,
Clotting paint as would your blood to injury
In one corner.
But in another,
the blacks evolve into greens as though you finally managed your blues.
What was it that you so willfully obscured
In a half-open eye,
or a neckline so demure?
Perhaps, if you painted your story in circles
You did not wish for the paint to peel.
Yet, here I am
Peeling, stealing.
Morphing your paint into brazen words.
I sat here and wrote about your painting.
Now,
My poem.

I'm trying to write again

Up, I crawl, within the folds of her saree.

In her prances, my ground shakes

as the earth quakes.

In the fabric, I fabricate tales of survival

As I play hopscotch in the plaids.

In the shadows of the folds, I fold my fears.

Tearing her saree, I catch a tear.

I look up, she is sad.

She looks down. She is mad.

Her hand zooms in on me,
I nearly escape her sinister swat.

But alas, I have flown into her naval--

An endless abyss,
It also prances.

But now, it's my walls that shake.

And my hope,

That has been shaken.