Hazily She withdraws her gaze from me; then elevates her eyes to the view of the setting sun behind kisumu town. Smiles slyly then she says;
“But Phill, I don’t know the colours of love. I don’t know how they look like..”
What does it matter how they look like for someone who has never been there?
I’m bended over the fence trying to push myself in; peeping through the window panes of her eyes; Trying to magnify the world in the lenses of her gaze.
What she sees ain’t what she seeks. Hours have elapsed; on one knee I’ve been leaning to a single hope that redemption is plausibly possible.
What she sees is a world that’s broken; tarnished and left behind like carcass that’s devoid of a soul.
No humane of a being exist in such solitudes of places that’s left behind.
Silhouettes of villains sprout from edges of such places; constantly they creep; alert; they take positions as their eyes sneer; arms raised; hands holding clubs; machetes predominantly glitters in the dark; faces hid behind hoods.
There’s no room for the weak and the kind hearted. Breaths from beating hearts are treated as a menace; a threat; villains gang to defeat a common foe. Rippers and vipers tore away hearts from the chest cavity.
Here there’s no life!
Once she was a victim. I was a villain. Even though we’ve both sipped from the cup of time; she’s still contemptuous about her past. A past where you trust who you ought not to trust. Where voluntarily you lay bare like a slaughtered hen on a plate ready to be feasted upon. Whence the Damage’s done there’s no putting the feathers back. You’re stripped off your pride.
She’s lost the fraternity of beauty that once was spoken of; everything that encircles her have lost meaning. The life that she leads is devoid of faith, salvation and hope for a better life.
Once the beautiful butterfly that we used to run after and composed songs about; was once an ugly caterpillar that scared the hell out of our sisters. Did she know, that broken strings plays a synchronizing harmony?
“But Phill I don’t know the colours of love… I don’t know how they look like….”
I wanna tell her that I’ll show her. But how’s that possible when I’m the darkest of soul.
I trim my fingers with hers. Pull her close to rest on my shoulders.
“I don’t know what the colours of love look like. But I know I love you.” I say.
Truth is; we’ve all been broken by something, and at times we just need someone tough enough to embrace our brokenness. Someone to mend us. Till we do, we’ll seize to be sad. In her, I’ve always found the colours of love.
*Heart_Art_Poetics*
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As written by Phill Ibsen ( Master Of Descriptions )
2017
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