Indigo

[Querida]

I spy her
trudging along
as if
her pom-pom pastel boots
are made of cement and stone.

every few steps she
lightly stumbles
as if waiting for a push.
as if bracing for a fall.

her face is painted,
brightly, boldly
a mask of conformity.
a mask of feigned bravery.

her designer bag
swings jauntily
from her clutched
hand.

her scarf swirls
with the wind
like
a haphazard dervish.

her dark mane
all tendrils and tentacles
with a life of its own.

her cottoned fingers
push sluggishly
at her sludgey-heavy hair.

her shadow is but a little scrap of a girl.

the wind pushes her swaying to and fro.

but the wind is relentless in its
tossing of her shadow
whirling, twirling
violently yanked up
and thrown down
it crumbles
to be raggedly pulled up again
helpless it seems, unheedful and yet willing...

much like the last leaf to have fallen from the trees
its companions long gone
rained and snowed upon
mashed all, into the wet
and slushy soiled ground.

[Querida]

Time in trying
to burnish this heart
noticed no matter what
the seams still showed
the cracks still faintly glowed

All the darkness had been drained
and the edges all glued with hope

And still,
obstinate
it remained
resolute
in its
flaws.

[pavalamani pragasam]

Beautiful imagery!

[Querida]

Maam, thank you for your comments as always

If you are referring to "I spy her" then it's quite close to reality and so it helped me be specific
reading it over now, though not a proper "blazon du corps" style, there's still something of it...

[pavalamani pragasam]

You are right, Q!

[Querida]

a palpable taste
staley, moldish
it rests fuzzily
upon the tongue
and secludes itself
in the nostrils
insinuating itself
in throat lumps

the flowers try
to distract the eyes

the incense
reveals a too-thin veil

the tears do no good
their salt does not whet
the appetite of the
living conscience

the eyes do nothing
but look and look away
see and then attempt
gather its remembrances
its instances spent
with this being

but the self immersion
of such glimpses into
a life lived
do no more
than make the
reality of the body
unpossessed
any less real
or un-alive in its
final place
of viewing
before it is
destroyed...

for whose sake
but those who
still breathe free

who hasten
to forget
memento mori.

[pavalamani pragasam]

A meaningful and touching dirge!

[Querida]

Startled i catch
my reflection
its shadow appears
slowly flitting,
settling uneasily.

Stepping aside
i see my dampened aura
lazily play catch up.

The room once again
lays disorderly
a table leg quivers
a chair turns.

the ants continue to swarm
colluding, confiding
in whatever it is that's rotting
something still awaits to
announce itself
its stench is lost to me.

Do they know of their doom
of the broom that looms
their scattered demise in one fall swoop
a fatal brush,
a bristled death.

I look away
let them crawl away
let their beady bodies
cluster in clues
another time

"Now why did I put that there?"
I muse loudly
(Not, how did that get there?)
the stirrings cease for the moment.

it has to be me, i cling to this.
(Not, how did it end up there?)
for is there ever an end?

[Querida]

at the precipice
a word strains to hold on
repeating its sound
as it is pulled down
by its fellow phrases
sentenced to a sentence.

all alone it makes no sense
it signficance long fallen
in to the cloudy depths
of the listless Lethe

i hear it as it fades
"what was that you wanted to say?"

the mind shrugs and wanders away.

[pavalamani pragasam]

Beautiful imagery!