Till The Time Passes

By Sidhi Gupta

The Town River is a raging drunk,

He comes home to his wife, blue

Angry and reeling,

ephemerally happy the next afternoon

Bathes the bodies it holds

with cold crystal water

rinse and wringed

Under icy white moons;

‘till the blood runs dry.

The Oak Tree is an pretentious hipster,

Brown and green freckled bark, 

and whispers to wind

Children wrap their loose limbs,

around thin branches, and the tree

rolls his eyes and calls them unoriginal

He houses the bugs,

and holds hands under the dirt,

Stands tall under nebula skies,

‘till the songs go quiet.

The Evening Star is a mean critic,

Set on fire, burgundy wine on her lips,

She calls her mom a loser, and

laughs at the teenage hands

wrapped tightly like ivy around fingers

As the point at her under telescopes

And a blanket of city lights, merged with night

She reapplies her lipstick,

She’s a matchstick trying to

burn the world brighter,

‘till the sun goes dim.

The Red Rose is a vain bachelorette,

She prefers her vices to be scented in Devil Dior,

She begs to disagree,

and has a hollow chest,

She’d rather not worry as it causes her wrinkles,

Unsure on her marital status being

so lonely, when she watches

all the right movies and reads the right books,

Her gentle scarlett hands have pricked

generations of lover’s fingers,

She’ll go for blood, everytime,

‘till the time passes.

By Sidhi Gupta