Violet - One of Seven

By Gauri Srinivas

She mixed a tint of crimson and another pint of cyan,

Violet emerged on her wooden hue-stained paint pan,

Sapphires around her neck and a tanzanite ring on her finger,

A tale that emerged from nothing but a woven tincture.

A hand to the cheek that bruised all violaceous,

Scars around her eyes all because she seemed audacious,

Slits on her wrists as scabs imprinted on her skin,

She quaffed her ache away with ounces and ounces of rancid gin.

Petals of pansies casted around her collar,

Grace your fingers on them and her father she would encounter,

A leather strap in his clutches and her neck in his grasp,

She covered her face with a violet coloured mask.

She found herself held across a door,

She could move and she could find herself bleeding on the floor,

Weeps could never speak for her woes,

Her existence was tethered to her greatest of foes.

He tugged at her necklet for it strained her voice away,

He broke her porcelain pot made of mauve-stained clay,

Ione bruises on her palm and elbows, commissures, limbs and legs,

It housed the blotches of burnt-out cigarettes.

As lullabies sounded like an au bade of pain,

She let her agony wash out with the rain,

She lay on the slushed fields with flowers on her frame,

It was testament to a begetter’s sick blame game.

Her corpse sunk into the soil and she was watered down and dampened,

On her remains, a garden of lilac blossomed.

A girl who mixed a pint of cyan and another tint of crimson;

Was bound by life to the driven guvnor’s prison.

By Gauri Srinivas