Say, one day, you hang your identity on a peg,
carry your wounds knotted up inside you,
an intricate maze,
and walk into a new city.
Say, you fail to notice the old branches floating
down new rivers carrying ants on their backs,
you sidestep the fallen yellow leaves that the
trees shook off of themselves, and you pay no
mind to the clouds swirling in the purple sky.
Say, the golden star, as promised, has traded
its sunbeams for cold silver and has become
a white dwarf.
This is the sole witness to your old life.
And now, even your rage is not your own,
it has fallen away having served its purpose.
It is something borrowed,
you are something blue.
Say, in this new city, where everyone retires —
where the sun is silver, the leaves are yellow,
where, even you have arrived like the others,
after having spent your whole life and love on
if you saw a tiny forget-me-not
growing in a crack on the road, would you
bend down to say “Hello”?
P.S: The painting I made (in pic) yesterday is the prompt for this poem. Leaves turn yellow and fall off trees only after the chlorophyll in them has been depleted and they have nothing else to provide the tree. Our sun will burn out all of its gases and one day, turn into a white dwarf.