On One Colour Festival

Rain deconstructs loneliness
only to rebuild it 
from the scattered pieces.
Nothing remains the same or extinct.
Nothing feels new or senile.

I watch the bullet head my way.
It reminds me of the flesh
after a session of sex 
tastes like a boxer’s mouth
after one tiresome bout,
the same and yet quite contrary.

In one of the tales childhood frequented
appears a hero in his labyrinth of no win.
Why do I recall it now? The last thought
metamorphose me inyo a fistful of red dust
thrown towards my lover. She laughs.

Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor