Verity

i was silent
for the past few days:

i recalled images, recoiling-
Picasso's Guernica,
Oscar Wilde's Dorian Gray
and Piet
Mondrian's
Boogie-woogie

there were
scratches of lines,
silhouettes of faces
scattered on the canvas-
an incarceration from
the world of verity

i felt chaos screaming
inside my head
so, i sat like Auguste Rodin's
The Thinker
while some random images
squeezed me

I felt like I was a voyeur
figuring-out
abstractions
and ambiguity,

I pondered.

Hearing
the ticking of the clock
loudened-
it echoed,

and for a few seconds
a lady,
shrouded
by her own cravenness,

in silence,
would have wanted to
die another death.