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.

.
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.

.
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

amour

evening_a_24_inches_high_x_34_reproduction_oil_painting_68b57a6f

dear

oh Dear –
it’s an evening of amour,
experienced alone, behind the open
windows- a view for the world
abstaining from desire, I disrobe
the words, and let them ablaze
on
the tip
of
my tongue.

dear

oh Dear –
let’s flow, let’s blow, let’s sing,
let’s waltz around in our skins,

*तू स्पर्श है तो मैं एहसास,
लब से जो तू छू ले तो मैं विलाप,
तू पुष्प जो है तो मैं  भँवरा हूँ.

let’s flow, let’s blow, let’s sing,
let loose control.

in dots and dashes,
I sigh, my last word,
in dots and dashes.

dear

oh Dear –

*you are the touch, I am sensation,
you are the kiss, I am that moan,
you are the flower and I, a bumble-bee.

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Linking it up with Poetry Pantry.

A Side Note: One of my favorite poets and bloggers, Oloriel Moonshadow, has recently published her poetry collection. Please check out her book here. It’ll be available on Amazon soon.

To become Fire

my heart has begun to rhyme,
it’s committed the solemn crime
to begin the walk taken alone,
stepping on land that moans
with every blink of yellow eyes,
I’m finding stars that never rise,
I am in the wilderness of desire,
I am reaching out to become fire.

touch me where it hurts the most,
I am ready to pay all the costs,
there is no meaning to the sea
that perspires in moments of glee,
I am sea foam, salted with desire,
I am reaching out to become fire,
that pardons none and forgives all
I am giving away to you my soul.

my heart has begun to rhyme,
it’s blossoming with dirt and grime,
there is no penitentiary for lust,
it is the fuel that never combusts,
the journey ends where it begins,
innocence dead, the demons win,
I am lost in wilderness of desire,
I am reaching out to become fire.

.

Written in consideration of dVerse Poetics where we are writing octets. I did not follow the syllable structure. I was reading Bilbo’s Last Song (At The Grey Havens) by J.R.R Tolkien, written in three octets. So, I came up with this verse which can be called vulgar in comparison to Tolkien’s verse. But that is what I am. Vulgar. 😀
I haven’t been writing much lately but for some empty verses which I scribble on the book that I am reading. I hope that you have not forgot me already.

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Bleeding into the night by her red cape

alas! it was her dire desire to drive

my heart, into a bull broken beside

by her red cape, bleeding into the night,

painting sullen soil with fingers that slide

in pools of her vestige, a snide sewage

of cognition of her, her presence saved,

it lingers in the air, her perfume made

from marigolds papered from ashen face,

that turned away from my sight, not to nurse

my wounds stained by steel, of her solemn church

of apathy, of angst, of ache, much worse

than what shows on her portrait in my purse,

a remnant of her, a part with me back,

lumping my love, there ain’t no pain like that

.

A little too late… for dVerse Meeting the Bar, where Mr. Tony Maude commenced the game of Bouts-rimés.

A Happy Valentines’ Day to the love birds. And the rest of you who are just like me, go eat some chocolate. I had a coconut candy instead. 🙂

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Note(16 Feb): I have two new pieces written but I am just not in the mood of editing. Therefore, I am submitting the link of this one for Poetry Pantry. I will be here and there, fleeting from one to place to another, but I will reach you in the end to enrich myself with your words. Have a good day. 🙂

Soul-mate

it was the thirteenth time

(she was counting)

when she heard his voice,

somewhere from far away,

but still close, too close

(as if whispering in her ears)

 .

she had devoured him,

tasted his blood and drank it all,

seven pints of it and

left his flesh to rot away,

or be the subject of a vulture’s dream,

she had gotten rid of him,

(that was what she believed)

but still she could hear his voice,

 .

as it was when she slaughtered him

to bits, seventeen pieces that stood apart,

torn away from the lifeless dummy,

she had snarled as she chewed down

his three eyes that once saw beyond

and sucked his lips that once kissed,

 .

she still heard his voice as it was

when she punctured his artery

and drank his life away, as it was

when he thrashed in her feathery arms,

struggled but then relaxed,

accepting what was to come,

lusty for her to take it away,

the poison that was left of him,

 .

she still heard his voice,

as he looked within her,

he penetrated her soul,

with those dead eyes that saw

but never saw again,

 .

she still felt his voice

tingle her back, (he was there),

she felt him within her bones,

his life flowing in her vessels,

she was the body he had,

 .

she wanted him as prey and had him,

(and believed that he was hers)

but it changed when he came to rule

over her, it was his voice

beckoning her to do what he desired,

it was his eyes that had come alive,

and looked through her,

and those lips she had fed on

were there speaking back to her,

his voice that emerged from within her,

he was there, (always been there),

he had become her soul-mate

*For dVerse Poetics. I took a slightly different approach and wrote a dark poem with certain ominous numbers.