With only seventeen sunflowers in my garden still I sit here writing about life but my pen seems repellent towards those sullen pages and moves to an old, blank canvas, starts with a vacuous stroke to give a monochromatic shade of green and narrate tales of these flowers.
Four sunflowers were blooming in a beeline but as the fifth one bloomed a stroke of black(fear) was added 'cause during its realm, a soft, nascent hand slipped off her parents' fingers, in the turmoil of the streets but she was blessed with good luck and this time holded the hands tightly along with the fear of being left alone.
The fourteenth sunflower seemed sanguine a stroke of yellow(hope) was added and green was fading but when was life prosaic and without some piquant? when this slender figure, rose upto a great height on tawny hills, above clouds for trekking what if my legs would have slipped, followed by an earthward plummet I swear, this time I felt close to you, to death.
The graph of this journey is affluent with ups and downs, petrichors were always pleasant, until they turned into storms, but 'I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship' and the canvas of these seventeen sunflowers is exuberant with variegate shades except grey and with remnants of each downfall.
Herbs and shrubs seem more viridescent as if hit by ecstasy, greenery enliven in the sombre meadows as the weather wears the fragnance of petrichor.
I always wonder, what evokes this aroma and I desire to store them in my perfume bottles. I try to enclose them in poesies with the scent of metaphors and from down the memory lane I collect my childhood petrichor stories and enunciate it to them.
But it seems, they aren't good listeners and etiquette isn't in their behaviour. Because Petrichor is followed by stygian clouds, which even conceal the horizon, aureate sky descends to grey and seems hopeless. Winds rush, for an unknown destination and my poetries are flown away leaving behind harsh tales and dried ink.
The sky is laden with clouds, an another cloudburst and I once again wish for a rainbow but the weather seems heavier than the wish. I loved drizzles until they turned into storms and these ghoulish, incessant clouds from an anonymous origin stays longer than the Sun and seems perennial. Months passed in these four falls the outer world is condensed in the window panel with a few sunsets seen. The umbrella doesn't seems enough, so I bring myself back to the casement.
The Sun forms eternal strings of embers on blue beds, birds' silhouettes are visible over red, luminous clouds and on the bank of river Yamuna, over cliff top, sits a soft, blissful physique. Her hands move slowly through her bangs and feet dance over water splashes and her satin blue dress seems flowing with the breeze.
Once Yamuna asked her- 'Who makes you wait till the entire course of sunrise and sunset is over?' Her lips turned crescent with a tinge of shyness and replies with her eyes closed-
Blood Falls is an outflow of an iron oxide-tainted plume of saltwater, flowing from the tongue of Taylor Glacier onto the ice-covered surface of West Lake Bonney in the Taylor Valley of the McMurdo Dry Valleys in Victoria Land, East Antarctica.
Unlike most Antarctic glaciers, the Taylor glacier is not frozen to the bedrock, probably because of the presence of salts concentrated by the crystallization of the ancient seawater imprisoned below it. source- wikipedia
This post was written 3 weeks ago and is still not checked by you, also other posts under #conceptc is not checked. Do take out time to read them because some underrated mirakeeans also take part in your challenges which guarantees them that atleast you are going to read. People love you here and your words means a lot to them but not reading may make them feel ignored.
P.S.- I was not going to write this but tomorrow is my English exam and was reading the poem 'The Voice of the Rain' by Walt Whitman from my textbook and this came out :) #rains#wod#zeeCollection WN thanks for like and editor's choice❤