Of Crawling Ants and Shooting Colors

April 13, 2010
By Nabiha Keshwani BRONZE, New Hyde Park, New York
Nabiha Keshwani BRONZE, New Hyde Park, New York
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

Two walls join together greeting
the lonely that come their way.
People change but
the background is the same.

Escape for a teenager.
Home of the ants.
Hiding place for a child,
And a place of love too.

She pulls up a chair
and closes her eyes;
imagining what could have been.

While the ant crawls
from under a leaf,
exhausted yet racing
towards the bin.

He places his
teeny fingers over
his eyes, trying to
cover his sins.

Time slot for each
and it takes the whole day
but still the two walls
are patient and wait.
silent always, and filled with kin.

The colors shoot across the sky
as the onlookers gaze in awe:
The red for unity, they say.
The orange for hope and
yellow for gold.
The mirage of dreams.

It turns frowns to smiles,
tears to laughter
as it gazes out from beneath.
Truly life-changing, they say.
A miracle from above.

The child points, sure he
has become an angel.
Calls his friends, the excitement
seeping through his pores
and reaching the sky.
His wings stretching as he
reaches into the color.

And just like that, its gone.
They go back to their homes
and remember where they were
before this miracle shot through
the sky and brought them out the door.

Some wonder how they could
have changed so quickly,
and wish for it to happen again.
But they are disappointed.

Swings creak in the darkness
as the seesaw teeters to one side.
Silent night buzzing with insects
and darkness.

Sometimes the lonely girl comes to visit you.
Blond locks cascading down her broad shoulders
and you read her sympathy,
and welcome her to your world.

She sobs through a smile,
unsure of her world,
yet blissful in yours.

She builds a river through your gardens,
and outlines a path on the dark mud.
Your rocks brush and bruise against her skin
but she remains indifferent
as she continues on her way as if
it never happened.

Her world leaves yours.
The swings creak as the seesaw teeters.
The sun comes up:
but it is still dark.

Fancy inscriptions cover your eyes,
your mouth, your ears.
What remains is a hand and a heart.

Children stay for days,
pouring their feelings
into you.

You relieve their pain;
and build it on theirs.
Some abandon you but others come everyday.

Overcome with emotion
you struggle to pass on your advice.

Hidden under beds,
Behind bricks and
In between piles of clothing.

You remain patient and obey.
Rather than fighting your way out you wait.
Until another one comes along to pour their heart to you.

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