Nostalgic Odor

Stones in my hand
Transparent and coloured
Some merge into the lines carved on the hand
Some induce a nostalgic odor

I see my childhood in one
My adolescence in another
While treading through the halls of future
I face those memories without a shudder

Its only pleasantness I want to remember
As though coloured memories roll on only one part of my tongue
Stinging my one half with sheer sweetness
Leaving the other with an emotion unsung

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Away from the quagmire of conventions
We held hands and sketched on each others soul a delicate rhapsody
We conceived some desires
I call them ‘bohemian dreams’

No black, no white please
A mix of both though is a welcome retreat
Drenched in gleaming gray, our dreams can laugh and weep
If they cry too much, we will wrap them in cellophane paper and put them to sleep

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In the cauldron of desires
We poured our dreams together
Stitching patches of promises on our future
A kind of mental foreplay

Like bleach stains, mistakes stay
They are hard to dye, they are hard to erase
Nit picked from the nest of thorns
To write an old story with new words, dreams flourish again

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Blobs of paint quench my tongue’s thirst for vibrancy
And yet I am thirsty from within
Craving for the smell of the paint, scent of flavoured dreams
I saw sorrow trapped in a bubble
I felt happiness as if wrapped in a scream
The day I will feel them rubbing against my skin
The day the colour from my veins will stream
I wait for the day when with drops of colour my canvas will beam