playhouse

a day is a playhouse of wonders
and nights, the plunder of a thief –
with stars and a sliver of a moon,
and glimpses of an unseen Neptune
bundled up, in a napkin,
out of proportion –

the paradox of understanding is that
it’s not deserved to be understood,

its smooth transitions from a muse
into a stalemate, never available
for scrutiny or viable visibility
makes it an easy target for this tense
turpitude.

we look at each other, hold hands, caress the ticking seconds
of the clock, this story doesn’t beget a climax of any sort –
semaphorism – as they call it –

of minds and hearts and innards that wobble
with the unprecedented movements of a distorted image,

a reflection is decomposing on the wall, a self is dis-
-integrating into half-bitten morsels of truth.

be it so – let the lights extinguish themselves into shadows.

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Linking it up with Wordle#159 at MLM Menagerie and Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads

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hanged

struck down by willingness,
he seeks repugnance of character, a butchering
to purge passions, a dream
to negate perception,

living behind/beyond the secure abode of knowledge,
inside the pool of not thoughtless but less thought of
notions.

invalid – but to be sure of submission –
the world takes a deep sigh
with every second bellied
by the man,
hanged.

Linking it up with Word Count at With Real Toads
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Instagram: mypeculiarself
Facebook: @aaha12345

an ocean story

down the lanes of persistence and sweat,
there are waves lapping at the mind’s cliff,
seeking restoration of things wild and vain,

I see with my squid eyes the promulgation
of morrows bound to my brows, lives are tarnished
by the salt of this ocean of continuity, despite
a range of cul de sacs of mediocrity,

I ache to parch my thirst through drowning,
I seek virtues in the bleeding sun touched by
paints of this allegory. I have seen tempests
and treacheries, I have witnessed moats
of luxury, and the contrasts that lie within
these stories.

the vastness doesn’t exemplify loss but transcends it
into a lonesome lore,
I can feel the brush of drops and sand coming
awash, on my face, as my limbs stretch out
to become the shore, where

sirens sing and muses muse a melancholic hymn,

a reverie is lost and found, thus becoming –

it was meant to lose itself in turquoise ripples,
for the fates of my nature and your culture
are misaligned.

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Linking it up with Midweek Motif at Poets United
*16 June: Linking it up with dVerse OLN

Instagram: mypeculiarself
Facebook: @aaha12345

the undertaking that a poem is

who saw that slithering liaison in the bushes?
it creeps forth as the moonlit sky grows dubious
of the possibility of its own virtue,
slyly, the sun peeks from the edges of a sight’s view,

a cuckolding cockerel rises and crows, an arrival
of a distant beam breaking the sweat of a dark cloud,
and a nice plumage hovers in the air
brightened by the prospect of that tantalizing warmth,

the stomach heaves, the chest sinks, and the velvet
dimension vibrates with that noise yet again,
there’s movement, there’s a curtain swaying
desperate now to be flung apart, and show the scene

of this instant, this momentary lapse of that beastly
no-man, clawing across the white that pervades
on my page, small prints emerge, the purity fades
and from nothingness, a poem springs forth, clinging

to the nature’s call, go on, go on, ask again, see again,
die again, but for a word that memorizes the soul,
and there’s light, and there’s lethargy in the voice
of that fiend, perhaps it’s the end with a final dot.

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Linking it up with Weekend Mini Challenge at With Real Toads and Poets United.

a silent vigil

the ice has taken hold between the two passages,
carrying the crystal white burden of dreams
and the languages of intrinsic qualifications –

to choose the fog over mist, slush over dirt,
and to keep frozen into stone all deals upturned,
all wishes parted by a moment’s touch –

lost is the sudden acquaintance with sensation,
I am near the end, I am at the edge, always dazed,
glorified by the fear of tumbling down – just the bliss
of never seeing the light

for it’s hard to dream with open eyes, for it’s hard
to see through your lips where you reside –

who ever said that this mosaic of understanding is fulfilling?

that blithe sun has devoured all else.

you are the halo, the shadow, the skin to my desire, the symbol
to this paradigm of pain,
and I keep up my silent vigil,
I wait.

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Linking it up with The Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads.

this imprisoned desire

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a touch was sought and received, whence
fingers gauzed out the remnants of cold
in the warmth of these props of decency,

hidden – the thumb traces the existence, index
paves the way for further exploration, the middle
is the spine holding the act together,

the little is cushioned, nuzzling its cheek against
its counterpart, the ring wonders what it would entail –

probing and prodding the story of our times, it looks
for answers where there are even more questions. verses
are spoken and heard, there are certain bits of activity
to bring forth those much needed bits of dizziness.

such is the nostalgia for the untouched touch – of lips against lips,
of tongue against the skin.
such is the nostalgia for an unanswered answer – of murmurs within
the ears, of words left undone.

I peek through my naked thoughts and find a glimmer of
hope, nostalgic of an unbridled news item –

yesterday, she read the fate off of my palm,
today, he caressed those solemn lines,
tomorrow, I want to make them both last.

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Linking this hopeless reverie with Poets United. I hope you all are having a good Sunday.
Mine seems to be pretty dubious of its own existence.

Image source

let’s do it

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love’s bulge seems to be pretty abundant-
lewd words weave a fulcrum of all dreams, wet to touch,
sweet-bitter tones serenade the ears, a silent breath
grazing the neck with a scimitar of nefarious thoughts,

don’t speak, just do the unspeakable, the unmentionable
with a velocity of a soaring plane, upending us into submission,
this is the art work people gawk at and fail to encompass
into any coherent knowledge, its deprivation, its salvation,

spilled paint is the canvas for this action filled space, love is
swallowing its saliva and thick puddles of misery foam at those
silent, nurturing lips. your mouth is my mouth is your mouth.

let’s do it. let’s unmake love.

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Image source
Linking it up with Poets United Midweek Motif

Also read this: this vulgar handiwork of time and let’s draw blood
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