River of Prose
Shades of a bruise meander between mud-slick banks of joy and despair. The blush of filled
capillaries glows eerie; the trappings of contentment are naught but mirrored ghosts, unlike the
folds at the temple, the blurring of structured memories that seep, draining melancholy,
and still the opaque liquid keeps moving, cruising past pilings that hold slick algal thoughts too
sessile to coalesce and thus they get caught in the stream and join the flow within veins, intrude
into ganglia, and strive for direction, hopeful of a gushing spill or to be carried by paddles
one by one, lifted at first to the sky, then giving in to gravity and the downward pull, the turning
of the wheel, the spillage and milling. And the words, unfettered like water molecules, dance.
They revel amongst themselves, reflecting hues, revealing truths.