play of metaphors

By Jaserah Syed

 
 

you, boy are a colouring of grotesque fluorescent lights on the meadows of noon

he settles like a feather and kisses like a stained priest

In the morning I quenched my melancholy with bad poetry and your laughs

he pocketed all of my favourite jam only to fire up some dirty bonfire night

his side of bed has grown moss, under the microscope it looks like betrayal

yellow fields of mustard, caught me once and whispered 

" there's always a Sunday after Monday." I didn't understand.

he went away with the lawn mowers. And I have this field to myself