the solitary bed

Sitting on this bed, the night stirs before me...It shivers, one solitary being.Haunted by my presence, the nightConstantly stares at my solitary bed...The bed so made up... made up with quilt-Rose coloured covered by the warmth ofA woolen sheet...The bed so warmAnd yet so cold... cold for the nightShivers at its sight... at its warmth,The solitary bedRose or is it dark... is it darker than the rose, or eyesForever unslept, see a vision... an exalted visionOf coloursDarker coloursBrighter coloursColours of boldness...Colours of violence or love...Colours of pink or blue...Blue or black...Black or red...Fantasies join the fragments of this night...Night, staring at the solitary bed...Bed, the only little objectThe seeming dead amongst all objects in this room...Or is it the only thing that still holds life...Still holds breathe...Breathe or is it struggleCold... utterly cold...Amongst perspiration...Bed made up and spoilt...Each time... each time it daresTo breathe... breathe seems goneAnd warm turns cold...Cold is itOr utterly warm...Warm with colours...Colours of violence...Colours of love...Bed-solitary bedChallenging the solitary night...The night is not jealous...A sight, too horribleTo be envied...The night is sad... and yet happy...Happy and safe...And lucky...Fragments of this bed, join togetherWoven with dreams...DreamsIf it ever sleeps...For sleep never comes...And so it dreams...Dreams with eyes, ever longing to close...CloseEnfold themselves...In the woven dream...Was it rose it saw...Was it pink... pink or blue...Blue or pink...Or was it black...Or was it red...The ever solitary eyes...StaringWideWas it violence or love...Pink or blue...Black or red...The bed... solitary bed...Stares at the shivering night...Night seems its sole companion...Night seems warm, as it seems to the bed...Comfort... comfort it does not findIn rose coloured quilts...Or woolen sheets...Or woven dreams...Nights, but they shiver away...The night insists, strugglesAnd escapesThe dreaded solitaryOf the bed...Bed the solitary bed...Was it night or the bed...The night deceives the bed...The night is safe...Safe in the moonlight...The bed-fragments-Ever so old... agedCan’t hold on...And yet so fresh... so ripe...Yet so wanting... yet so giving...The bed so old...It is ignorant...It is a new born baby...Come to life... every time,And then the fragments break againAnd eyesForever unslept... wide openSee itself... the aged,The solitary being, the bedThe night blesses its solitary...The night prays, the nightBut it cannot help...There she standsWith its moon...A symbol, a victim, a witnessTo the aged solitary bed...Was it pink or blueOr black...Was it violence or love...What colour did it see-the moonWhat did it see..The ever unslept moon...Was it pink or dark...Black...No...It holds something more...Was it red...Was that BLOOD