Three paintings on the café’s walls
listen to the friends trying hard
to survive their survival tales.
The painter, added details in bloody shades.
In this light arrangements they look
like a long lasting bloodshed.
Night gathers the Sunday pariahs hungry
and missing the kindness of the day workers.
The details indoor become anemic, friends
one broad and shapeless shadow
and the paintings blank. The canvasses bark
at the dark couches as if they can
catch the attention of the artist in his grave
and make him begin a Jobs of repainting them.
The Rails of the Reality
I unwind my arms.
The rail lines penetrates into me.
The train never emerges outside.
I am its journey.
The glasses are not that thick.
One can grab the blades of dark.
The train leaves the odd shapes
of penumbra for odd shapes of penumbra.
I have heard you let this life go,
but cannot imagine yours reasons,
even though I know most of the facts.
You unwound your arms,
became a journey.
The Rails of the Reality
I unwind my arms.
The rail lines penetrates into me.
The train never emerges outside.
I am its journey.
The glasses are not that thick.
One can grab the blades of dark.
The train leaves the odd shapes
of penumbra for odd shapes of penumbra.
I have heard you let this life go,
but cannot imagine yours reasons,
even though I know most of the facts.
You unwound your arms,
became a journey.
.
Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
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