A Paint Bucket

There’s a bucket full of white paint

Right in front of my feet

If you ask me, it’s white

But they have named it moonlight

 

I stare at the white liquid

Like a queen staring at her crown

I ask the walls, would they mind,

if I choose to drown?

 

Hearing all the silent responses

From all sides of the room

I decide to think of the consequences

Before the sickly smell makes me swoon

 

First, I would enter my fingers,

The paint molecules would then subside

Like the Red Sea, splitting, into ripples

Making way, like wedding guests for bride

 

Then I would be engulfed in entirety

By the black hole viewed in a negative filter

I won’t swim but stay still

 And let the paint be my shelter

 

When I come out of the liquid

I’ll be a walking white wagonette

Carrying the load of insanity

And meaningless twenty-six alphabets

 

I will have long nails painted white

With the tips dripping off liquid

Like a melting vanilla ice cream,

Disappearing every minute

 

I wonder what Byron would have said,

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of snowy climes and ghoulish skies;

Perhaps?

 

I wonder and think of the fun

Of gratification of horror

As I stare at the label that says, ‘Moonlight’

A mere name that isn’t worth much bother

 

I snigger at the sight of the name

And claim ‘How unprofessional!’

White shouldn’t be named ‘moonlight’,

I would have preferred hexadecimal.