A Paint Bucket
On a lazy Sunday morning
I am lying on the couch
Doing absolutely nothing
Until I hear my mom shout
“Skand, make yourself useful
Help me with some chore
We are painting the house
Get some paint from the store”
Off then I go
With my jolly prancing steps
Entering the vibrant shop
The colors waltz in my head
I am muddled by the options
Even though I know what mamma said
Had she not wanted ‘serene and bright’
We could really go for some black
I wander in my search
And find a color so perfect
Everything about it was great
except the name it had
I point in it’s direction
They bring me the bucket for me to inspect
Oblivious of nature of my inspection
I simply stare at the object
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.