The slave returns from illegitimate work
Still in rags
Those smell of grubby dictates
His body bears etched marks of thrash and unruly beatings
The blood accumulates forming stale marks
He still makes calculated moves
As ordained by undying habit
He whips up some soup
With the age old vegetables floating above
The utensils go haywire
He notices unprecedented facial contours in vapour-emitting hot soup
Making his weakness a loose fragile sheath
He drinks down soup
Aquires no vigour
Quite funnily he requires none
For he has no one to praise
He has no one even to care
Has lost the humdrum
His spouse has gone to relish riches
And flaunt them back to him
So that he bangs his fist and head at his sheer imprudency
So that the realisation dawns on him
Ultimately making him crumble into seclusive pieces
With passage of time he coughs and snuffle
The sun rises
Creating a glorious canvas of dark and dazzle
The contrasts surface
And his hands become as white as mysterious clouds
It was stifling
She sauntered in her scintillating smock-frock
There was a thud
Nature asked as to why she appears morbidly sad
Like the sordid owl
Her pink dress gets splattered with oozing blood
The novelty was scarred
So much so that she sat immersed in melancholic overtones
The rythm of scuffles had died down
She checked the veins
And gleefully danced in the pouring colours
Her dress became conspicious in the gloomy backdrop
She gazed at the corpse with inebriated wistful eyes
Relunctunt to wear it off and drench the soul with strokes of desertion
She rushed to the woods to share it with glowing darkness
And urged them to rejoice
Willingly she liberated herself from slavish mental prisons