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      
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