colors

If I could suck the redness
Of a rose
Or if I could have washed away
The colors from the feathers
Of a peacock

If I could understand
Why the beauty touches
Me so deep
Why the blood does not smell like a rose
Why peacocks beauty is flawed
And why we desire, the forbidden

Questions to answers
Don’t come easy

For when do blood stains become a beauty?
And when do you see beyond peacocks feathers?
And when do you realize the catastrophe of love?

You are an intellectual
Mr. Know all
Play with words and metaphors
Hide your filth, skin deep
For you, such answers come cheap

Blood stains from a virgin’s fuck
Look beyond the beauty, why does the peacock cry
When you are in love, too late a realization

Your answers explain
But can they slay the pain

Whose pleasure becomes the beauty, or that first sting is the beauty
The peacock cries, is it joy or the pain
A realization of love, isn’t that the eternal pain