Naivety
The sky,
it's not blue, It is silvery grey
a canvas smudged by trembling rays,
You—
Like the inside of a poet’s soul
Who is going insane, but laughs it off
sketches madness, speaks in dread
He writes with a pen of crimson red,
Pouring words in existential dread,
somehow alive, yet almost dead
in every phrase he has ever said
Khaki dress, brown horses tread,
a field of daisies, where no dreams wed
Blue beret falls, flashing death
Vivid dreams, the tulip's Dead
The sky's not blue it's vivid grey
Ever heard of leaver's stay?
He paints his muse-
As the conscious fuse
a girl runs, in silvery-grey
Yellow hues, field of hay,
face hidden, hair in disarray-
a moment lost in dim-lit decay.
For no logic could comprehend
What came his way
Shooting stars in iris gleamed
Visions repeat in the vivid dreams
Straw hat falls, drowning death
The Indus flows, daisy's dead
The skies renew, with a reddish hue
Giving the reader a timeless cue
Reindeer screams, panther sleeps
Creepers climb and the willows weep
Moonflower blooms, in sunset hue-
Lavender wilts, with a muddy view-
the sky, it watched—
In monsoon grey—
and swallowed all they didn’t say.
No place for you to be naive,
No shelter left for hearts to grieve
For every illusion has to cease
With every single paper crease
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