Tashi breathes the mud of magic. The cold windy day translucently blows and his bones rattle against a tepid warmth hardly be called skin. His life on a raw afternoon, when the wind heads for north are bustling trees quietened to tragedy. The blatant nights and the vindictive air chewed like the end of a cigarette butt ensured nothing. It hung in the aisle, smug, full of imperfection. On countless nights, when the void breathed and lingered in earth's womb the Satan pulsated in his veins. His beloved has been crumbled like fear tattooed in the folded layers of an ageing earth; of leaves. His beloved rests in the myriad colours that impregnate the earth while the dewy morning softly croons in the lap of a dusky sky. The confluence of darkness and light. The itch persisted It devoured his sanity. Early autumn mornings were a rarity for his insipid self. The distractions in his head quieten. He could gurgle and spit out the rawness of his wound. The morning sedated him. In the mornings like these he could love life an almond skin wrapped around and Viagra in his blood raged, procreating a hunger for the silk. His intentions became clear and cruel. Now in these mornings he prepared to strike. After all it was justice done, it was the last rights that he could offer to pay to Myla. Her ashes blindfolded Tashi in the newly painted sky of a crimson morning.
Article © Deeya Bhattacharya. All rights reserved.
Published on 2017-08-07
Image(s) are public domain.