Secrets
Seeds
Of waiting-to-be-told
Dying-to-be-told
Crying-to-be-heard
Seeds
Mutter silently, rolling this way and that
Wracked by the desire to be born
But nobody can hear them
Only the rain
Mother rain
Guardian of secrets
Listens
Waits
Because she knows that nothing is born before its time
Black. It was daylight, but it was black.
Like the inside of his heart
Like her hair that whipped her cheek in wet, vicious spikes. Like the single, lonely rivulet of mascara that had sadly overflowed from the red-rimmed banks of her eyes
Red. Like the pain that throbbed somewhere in his head
Red. Then yellow. Then red. Then yellow. Cruel, insistent, unrelenting.
Like the eyes of the cat that sat on the garden wall – two malevolent, unblinking suns that blazed through the magenta-purple clouds of the bougainvillea.
Through the tar- black that slowly melted. Then dripped.
Into the clotted red. That thinned. Then ran.
Into yellow. That smelted gold. Then smouldering, searing, muttering fell
Into magenta, then purple
Till pain smudged grief leaked into despair smeared in anger streaked with disgust
Bruised
