By Pritika Magima
In spring she is the light to the sky,
the radiant healthy bronze on every peek of his
his fingers can play music
over nooks and corners
her body is like the organ he never had
Every line a new note , every curve a different tune.
He works in precision indeed.
Over the sweet scent of hay he collides with how fleeting every strand of her is.
She escapes like the smell of the first summer breeze
Heavenly sweet and momentary.
Then comes the glorious pour of clouds and water
Confined they are within
Dampened walls and seeping mud
Yet raw is how his music turns
And how her self responds
To his every mood
To his every demand.
In absence of the audience her breathing fills his need to be known.
Raw and earthly love is what fires the breezy days ahead.
 |
| Photo credit - Manushree Gangwar |
Autumn creeps in on her bared back
now the sun perky as ever
Yet a sense of solitude lingers on
his music comes to a halt for a reason
his eyes are sore from how his creation is maddening.
But she seduces back the flair in him
To romance not a piece of wood but her private self.
Slow and out of practice
he moves like for his prey.
Then again she sings to his music
And his hands now pump blood again.
Winter doesn't announce itself
It just numbs her toes and creeps up her veins.
He is prone to the dying need for music.
She is in need for redemption and warmth
but there is only so much to give.
Over these days he has never sunk so low
She has never felt so content
Each part of him pulls back
Each whisper of hers draws him back in
They're cold and they're mangled from the sweat and the scent
But no log of wood provides heat enough
To suffice the man of music and his beloved.
The cycle repeats itself
And if his body gives way
and her luring dies,
he shall hum the tune for her instead
Of their rendezvous of four seasons.
About the writer : Aspiring writer. Inspiration lies in music and wine. And books, of course. Monologues soon.
