Deep Purple

No copyright violation intended

Deep purple,
Were the gift wraps,
Deep purple,
Was the art.

The man she loved,
An artist,
And she,
A purple charm.

A slender porcelain doll was she,
Clad in pink and a princess crown.
Black curls falling on her shoulders,
Gleaming eyes of a striking brown.

And right beneath,
Beneath her right,
Tattooed was a crescent moon.

On a pleasant night,
Under the full moon’s light,
Gifted by the window of her room.

Now, as she faces the sky,
And its mystery blue,
As her fingers
Caress the window pane,

An autumn leaf twists
On her forearm skin,
Marked by the sweet
Kiss of a cane.

Wounds of  fury, no,
Gifts of love.
For he was an opulent giver.

Time would sing songs
Of the love of a man,
Who made a canvas, of his lover.

His heavy blows
Turned her black and blue,
His kisses turned her red in a daze;

She bore it all,
And of it,
She painted a portrait.

Of a woman,
With pursed lips, screaming eyes,
With such beauty that pierced you so.

Of a woman who never cried,
Nor spoke; Of a woman,
Who never knew to say no.

‘Twas but a blithe encumbrance,
Wrapped in passion,
That bore on her relentlessly.

It was then tied with marriage,
And tagged with love,
That she acceded to, helplessly..


The story of a woman whose scars were etched far too deep for the shackles of love to undo.

Not every woman is as brave as she wants herself to be. Not every woman finds the courage to fight her own war. Not every woman is loved the way she deserves to be loved.

Categories: Poems | 1 Comment

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One thought on “Deep Purple

  1. Vaish

    The poem beautifully paints a dark picture. Or rather, a deep bloody purple picture. Great work!

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