My colours are only visible to me: A poem

I can see that the bees

don’t hang around trees with no flowers

I decided to walk through the maze

and face a Minotaur, and love him

But my love for him only defeated him

Do I believe those I hate take victory?

Yet, I’d never want to be attable with them

I’d rather shoot up to the sky

like an entombed dead Pharaoh

whose spirit is aimed at certain corners

of the humongous milky way

Does the thought of dying prompt fear

in a person lost in functionality?

I have discovered that utility

can be of no use, when one is floating

in a substratum of omnipresent dispassion and unwanting

I am like a soldier whose fire

only burns himself, never his enemies

I am not a patron saint of self-immolation,

but how can you navigate a cinema

where the protagonist of your story

turns against you

Though I tried to be oblivious of it before,

I am now counting God’s countless magnum opuses against me

And I swear, I did not paint the colours of my raiment out of choice

These colours of duty seldom seem to be visible or welcome to all!