lust, when cajoled & converted,
from the thing it was, becomes
a lascivious ghost, whispering
into your cherry-blossom-ear.

how easy it can be
to drown
in each and every
syllable of that voice,

how difficult it can be
to come out
of a well, where you’ve
bled & emptied yourself.

© Anmol Arora

Day 27
(Inter)National Poetry Month


A self I have that kills when I am looking away

there I am decaying in

garbled words that escape my mouth,

divine intervention necessary

to keep me balanced on the ground,

as I burst open my tongue

throwing darts of mantras of

the language inherent in my nature

(which I would understand but I couldn’t),


that replies to stories of the future devised

that coils around my toes, up my thighs

piercing the heart with screeching pain

of ability hindered by self

that disintegrates with the slightest touch,


I am wicked, wane, vulturous, picking,

biting into my own putrid flesh

that reeks of ignorance and curse

of being the being that I am,


the night doesn’t offer condolences

but hypnotizes me in a lullaby

and the day virtuously smiles

keeping me adrift on a rowing boat

that only stays afloat to be falling apart,


they come and suck my vicious blood

to be cursed with my curse that is,

they arrive and leave their marks

which I rip apart to flow more of my self

as a bait for the poor enemy to consume me

before I dissect myself into pieces

spread on a broken road, lungs deflated,

stomach churning feet away, and my heart

in my palms, leaking, shrieking, as life

strangles it into numbness and there’s silence


Image source

Pilgrims of the Lost World

not a matter of survival, but of living,

as he sat looking at the window,

not at the scenes unwinding outside,

but the wooden slabs rotting away,

termites crawling, eating away,

consuming strength, leaving behind

just a hollow piece, ready to fall apart,


he rubbed his eyes swollen, and beet red,

not willing to go to sleep, for another round

of those nasty, nefarious nightmares,

when someone knocked, and sought his attention,

a stray pigeon, pecking at the dusty glass,

watching curiously, as if searching for

an unfound truth on the surface or within,


he moved, his limbs trembling,

he caressed the image from the inside,

meeting a life, rejoicing in this meeting,

the two pilgrims of the lost world,

(but in different situations- free, trapped),

but every moment ends, as that one too,


the bludgeoning bird took a flight,

leaving him looking at the widening wings,

and longing to clutch the callous claws,

grabbing a way, to journey through life


* I haven’t edited it. I am being quite lazy. It is written in consideration of CSB Weekly Prompt Angst and Longing. Also sharing with dVerse OLN.

Photo Source