December entwined her semi-arid soul. Another futile year was staggering towards its end. Unwary of the countless seconds it has exhausted without bearing any fruit. The fireplace - exhilarated by transgressions. Opium induced some bliss. She was cold. She was at the focus of the Big city but her core was wandering through Sahara. She glanced at her watch. It was time to serve food. The Master would otherwise greet her with a bitter chide.
She glided through the stairs. Her grace flirted with her locks. She was impeccably clothed. Her essence was precarious. The Master has made this Golden cage for her with tads of solace, beads of tranquility. The cage consumed her quintessence. Inebriation persuaded her hands to tremble. Nevertheless, the dinner table was perfect. The Master doesn’t have ample time to indulge in a conversation. A stream of discreet emotions and sharpened idiosyncrasies were akin to honeydew. She was content. She was obliged. She followed the orders meticulously.
Dinner over. It was bound to get over at some point or the other. She knew she was content. She groped this feeling with all mirth. She was opinionated, they said. However, that didn’t mater to her. She was obstinate, they said. Reproach was all they got. They tried to de-façade. They were similar to some anathema that befell her. She maintained her composure in spite of the opium-overdose and their voices. The Master’s benevolence aggravated her belief. That was acknowledgement to her.
She went through the page Master has left behind. The next day’s task-list.
She slipped it into her pocket. Cleaned up the mess and went to her room. Was her cleaning adequate for the mess?
The bed was warm. The only extravagance, she could afford. Opium guaranteed her exquisite dreams. She waited eagerly. Slumber claimed her. She saw the pineapple garden. The pineapples were ripe and mellow. Her naïve attempt to touch them changed the scenario. She found herself in the middle of Sahara, squashing a prickly pear. She retreats with pain. She screams till her throat breaks and she scampers into the sand. She keeps on running, a red trail behind her. She keeps on running, an abrupt null in her eyes. She runs through Nero’s domain, flames endorse her gown. She reaches the cinnamon island, only to find the Master. The master wouldn’t yell, the passivity and indifference has faded out. The master would console.
The clouds camouflage the illumination. Pretty suffocating. The coldness influences a distinct numbness. She gets ready for the chores. The opium-tainted walls are drab. They have been neglected. The passion-vine on her rusted sill now spreads through her windows. A few dispersed pages, loiter on the floor. One casual glimpse on one such page.
“ How are you? While passing by your golden house, I anticipated a glance. However, you were nowhere to be found. The magnificence of the architecture did be spectacle me. Still, I have a grievance. Why have you stopped playing with us? “
The words fleeted like the moments, waiting for the master. He wouldn’t see her in daylight, however dim it may be. She was accepted in the realms of nocturne. She was spellbound by the master’s spirit. She knew her master’s mettle. Steam has accumulated in the kettle. She opened the lid and let it go. Opium was a charmer, she knew. She fell in its trap without much ado. Her conviction was strong; the letter was bleak.
Days of fallacy
Nights of lunacy
She wanted blue
But she craved for green
