Saturday, 17 September 2011

Draw With Me

Walking, walking, out to the edge,
Seeing a glass with a three-inch ledge
Reaching out, you see a reflection
Seemingly similar yet different reaction
Appearance, behavior, both alike,
Yet you can’t communicate, even with a mike
A soundproof barrier separates you two,
“Hello, hello!” you shout. “Can you hear me, you?”
He only shrugs and shakes his head,
And of ideas your mind is dead.
In his pocket he fishes around
Old coins and dust fall to the ground
In his hand he holds two chalks,
Made of fine material, black Ursofalk,
“Can you write?” he asks on the wall,
And a piece of chalk towards you falls.
“Of course, duh,” you write back,
a simple line, written in black.
He thinks of a way to make it fun.
“Can you draw?” he asks, still keeping mum.
And soon you start doodling on the glass
Drawing, a process smooth and fast,
Leaving a space to see each other,
You start to blush under evening’s cover.
He looks down, then suddenly writes,
“It feels cold” to your right.
He hesitates, then adds more too.
“I really want to be with you.”
“You are with me,” you write fast,
“Only there’s a glass between us.”
He leaps up, suddenly angry.
His heart, his soul, suddenly empty.
He pummels the glass hard with his fists
The anger twisting his face, even his lips.
“No!” you shout, “You’ll hurt yourself, no!”
T’was no use, he couldn’t hear your voice low
Suddenly the glass, it spider webbed, cracked,
He motioned you to move away, his pace failing to slack
And in three blows the glass gave way,
And you’ll always remember that fateful day
Three million shards repaired themselves,
His hand being there, slashed as well.
The next day, he arrives in a splint.
Your heart, at his sight, gallops in a sprint.
“Are you okay?” you concern talks.
He nods silently, taking out his chalk.
Cheerfully you write, “Wanna draw?”
You see him sigh. “I can’t anymore.”
That night you feel the lasting despair
How can you sleep when his arm can’t repair?
You take a knife and hold it to your elbow
It’s okay, you think. It’s not a big blow.
The next day you throw it over
And wait for him, your sweet clover.
He sees the package and opens it
And his lips in surprise he bit
The package drops, your arm comes out.
You write a line with an effort bout.
“Draw with me.”

1 comment:

  1. That little video was so beautiful and so so sad and terrible. I love the poem, BB! Perfect :D

    ReplyDelete