It's like one of those things,
life,
that you put in water,
and then they change colour,
Remember those pretty little gelly beads,
we used to play with as kids.
Little white beads,
left in a bowl of water,
swelling up
as if,
with hopes and dreams,
and expectations,
and desire,
of varied hues and shades,
the more you soak in,
the more you grow,
and when you'd look
at light passing through them,
from across the glass,
you'd see,
a variegated riot of colours,
broad careless strokes
and prosaic mosaic patterns,
of recrystalized disappointments,
and shame and fear and guilt,
all simmering at a 185,
if you know what that is,
fluid, like regret,
defined a moment,
losing itself another,
like shades of if I could,
and could have,
and should and shouldn't have,
suspended in a jelly,
with almost life like properties!
Like a rainbow
torn away from the sky,
and recklessly thrown
into a bowl of water,
and you'd just watch,
look at the changing colours,
watch them like a story,
unfolding,
by itself,
as if you have no role to play,
just watch it,
from across the glass,
and across the water,
convinced,
it's something best left there,
to happen and to be,
and to be watched
from across
the foggy, misty, poetic lens of memory!
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