|| The Lipstick ||
In the used-furniture shop, in a winding lane
Seen through a foggy soulless window pane
A used lipstick that stands on a dressing-table,
With the solitariness of an old, forgotten fable.
Lying by its side a dead cotton ball, having bled
The lipstick wiped congealing to darkening red.
Between them they hide the saddening story
Of a pair of lips that waited for a day of glory
In the long somber winding alleys of oblivion
Buried in the dead shell of memory’s cocoon
Two lips that longed for a moment’s passion
A moment to arrive, for as soon to be gone
An eternity ever, ever, ever so infinitesimal
From the lipstick’s daub to the rub of the ball
What were the lips like to the touch and feel?
Before passion came alive and began to reel.
Were the lips pale, were they thirsty, dry?
Did they look like they would silently die?
Did they anguish in a bitter sweet hope?
Did they tremble from a yearning to elope?
Till lipstick ripened them, two red segments
The colour of the flame of heart’s torments
Bursting, burning in full and succulent bloom
With a rare desire craving for certain doom.
But, the evening came and the evening went
Clocks’ hands ticked to the day’s dead end
Yet no one came by, no one kissed the two lips
All hope within died as a breathless flame dips
The lips fluttered faceless in time’s cobweb
Like a mute drowning with silent cry for help.
Then as if straw, the hands clutched the cotton ball
And having smothered the lips limp let it just fall
Covered in dead blood the cotton ball soon fell
Close to the lipstick, like the fag end of a sorry tale.
Eventually the ball will drift away from the lipstick
Away and away, like a sailor in a wrecked ship sick.
Does a beautiful face, a pair of lips always make?
Or do they bloom, wilt and die in just a kiss’s wake?
Indroneer / 04 September 2013