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Beyond the Lemonade Shade

She was the thread that hung him to life, 
Like a creeper to the flower of offence
That grew on the stalk of suicide
Like poetry bursting now and then.

Though poesy was few and far between
Like the blue moon and its moods
The prose was writ amidst all the chaos
Even in dullness deadpan or morose to choose

He wove words like a weaver of silk
Smooth and knotted yet raw
The one that glazed the bodice of life
Yet himself surviving by the straw

He drew lotuses in clusters
And pods of green foliage in the pond
And sad himself by the banks he sat
To throw pebbles, a pondering pastime fond

Each ripple brought a story blue
A new question also did it spring
And from dusk to dawn sat there he
Awaiting stories to sieve and drink

~ Purvi Petal , 11 Jan ©2015

*One hundred moments of solitude that translate to an equal number of years in the mind.