*Purple (The Purple Pointer)

The rain has fallen.

Giving way to the shoots of memories,

Strewn along the tar roads, years deep

The sky takes on a peculiar character,

With the clouds quite unwilling to retire,

But ushered out nonetheless

Between the arms

Of the sensuous purple sky,

And the slow breeze

Which takes care to weave itself,

Between every, strand of her hair.

The past has manifested as a mood

Not only on our small window to the universe

But also, wondrously, on her dimples

And the meditations of her softly cornered lips

And so,

We lock ourselves within walls

Through which there is no entrance

Except by knowing the exact path taken

That other purple evening.

Image: As, ever Santosh