I want you to paint
the portrait of my soul.
Spare me from that intrusive flash
like a sneer of the present without a soul -
it knows nothing about the tremors
and the fiery, cold, fierce
that I was.
I’d want each stroke and blend
of colours, to be as dainty and as light
and as stormy as what and how it was.
I do not wish to
Allow that brush to trace each
cries and shouts and laughter -
confined within the fortress of memories.
Do not compel the canvass to just take
a glance instead – and look into the mirror
that was the past. I fear that a different image
would take my place.
Come, take a look
But when you do, remember
to stand on the side when
the inner floodgate opens -
for you, and that unfinished canvass, may
be swept away as the currents from within
would come out, exploding – invading
like a kaleidoscopic force.
Paint my truth.