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