Is it because it reminds you of murder and bloodshed?
Pale pink, like the persian rose would do.
But, quite often you leave behind a trail of midnight blue!
If Love’s claims are as sweet as an orange persimmon,
Then, tell me why at times it tastes like a steak, overdone?
I swear I could carry off black Love with enough panache,
Most often though, you leave behind a messy mix of dying embers, and ash.
And, then suddenly your arrow strikes me somewhere in the middle,
Reminding me that the real color of Love lies buried, inside your fickle fiddle!
Making me dance to its ever-changing tunes,
Till I begin to wonder if I’m an actor straight out of ‘Looney Tunes’.
*I wrote this poem for One Stop Poetry’s One Shot Wednesday. Do visit them and have a great time checking out poets, old and new.