The raven and the peacock

Smothered in melancholy,      
words left unspoken—      
a stillness so sullen      
as if blackness was all that I stood for  
And the colours;      
the ones that sting my iris      
are the lifeblood of the audience      
in unrelenting ovation    
     
and the colours started streaking    
     
The streaks formed opinions      
Opinions formed persuasion    
And I just stood there— blunted    
     
A pinch of crimson introduced itself to my dark—    
as a reminder of a lost abundance       
the flair of my youth    
where audacity painted each quip    
I tread boulevards that stretched yonder;      
climbed mountains to every apex    
I had an attachment      
to the spirit quivering—
once    
before the red turned black    
     
I spent years in the emerald sward      
I was a raven crowing at peacocks      
as their mottle inspired me;    
in the shroud      
within a rainbow      
in the pause      
of a storm      
     
In the marble      
of bliss      
Where the desire of the colours      
was to bleed out the blackness    
to spread life to the languid;      
to embellish their whitewashed feathers    
Where lament influences      
so much less than not at all    
     
in this vivid portrait    
as my world fades to autumn      
Saffron and chestnut      
paints the sentiment      
before the snow—    
subtle shades gently introduced      
leaf by leaf      
until their release    
where their bodies blanket the fade of the flowers     
I prayed their ambiance would linger—  
that aura in crimson  
and it would paint the coat      
of every rose