red and blue lights

i hate blue and red lights,
i feel like eliot on the operation table.
a prison. did dungeons have such lights?
or like walking on a dark street,
turning back to gaze into the stalker's eye.
my footsteps gather pace, but the heart's leapin
it's a game of shadowns down unknown alleys
of a drunken crowd, that screams and taunts
cause you have refused to drink tonight
when they hate your fist-sized calm,
and you envy their bliss-laden forgetfulness
not wanting it though under blue, and red lights....
it is not that you hate red
of the christmas star, of the flag that faced the skies
of the hibiscus flower of childhood
that lay crushed to crimson and purple the next day
of gulmohar trees in my hometown
of the first heart you scribbled in your notebook
the smallest, for you were afraid of those watchful eyes,
their opinions, the judgements they would pass
and go into a corner and gaze at red earthen tiles
of school walls, and the red wet earth
it is not that you hated them..
nor blue neither
all transparence that flows as a blue whole
the colour of dreams laced with white clouds
the same crayon to paint the sky and the river
little v-shaped black crows circling above
while a boat and the boatsman hooked on to a fish,
two, three more of them, all in a line...
and later, the boy you called
"my blue horse"
knowing well there was none
it is not that you hated them
it is that i hate red, and blue lights