The Black Quandary

Image result for the curls painting

The black curls, oh the resemblance to the night

clings to her forehead, distraught,

like the spider’s web shambled,

crooked,   rubbing the forehead like the harsh waters 

rubbing the grey stone, by the riverside.

Polishing it maybe, intriguing,

forlorn tales hit back, yet again

saying the clandestine, monotonous, words,

one by one, the whole nine yards.

Magic, Stealth, vigour, 

anonymous all the emotions,

wrapped in the grey blanket

to  the body to cover the bitter marks,

The black curls, congruence to the pain,

symmetrical to the thorns,

playing angles, all the way

Oh, these black curls falls the way

it did that day.

Conundrum, play.





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