a sunset song

through my bespectacled eyes,
i cannot pinpoint when the orange
turns to blush, or when the savage
evening bares its blunt fangs for
a final feeding, and still, i am
engrossed in the spectacle of
this agitation, or the sense of
its happenstance, its belief —

a half-dead day looks down on
its own destiny, of consumption
without pleasure. my pink-gold
lips flutter in this breeze that is
no breeze and i hear the drop
of a celestial bell, coming
into being,

purple sights cartwheel in this
shadow-scene.

where do you go from here?
where do you find a colorless sunset
for your blindness?

left behind —

a nightless mood
revels in this pause, that goes on
and on,

as survival hangs by the toe-nail
of a petrified sky, pure in the pale-
horror, turning into

ashes, tears, and
undesired rebirths.

.
© Anmol Arora 2018

For The Midweek Motif at PU
Image source (Magritte’s The Banquet)

***
For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.

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to evanesce

.

I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.*
My lips curved to the angle of my contrition; my bones
dry like sandpaper — I refrain from facing the sight
of my slow-breaking; I shade this night, and map it out
on my sea-green scars. Their wig-donned smiles abandon
me, to gawk at my graven loss, paying a hefty load for
the skein of my destiny.

I am somebody; I have something to do with shattering.
My ears bend to the tremor of voices that hearken to
the shell-shore of Calypso — ‘Shame,’ they call out in
my cerulean-blue sequined nerves. ‘Pity’, they resound it
through their cherry-twine jowls. They bury me in stones
and pull at the weight of my guilt, avowing their fealty for
the passing of my duality.

I am nobody || I am somebody
to evanesce — I only need be.

.

*From Sylvia Plath’s Tulips

For With Real Toads’ Wordy Thursday, where we are starting off with a borrowed line from another poet’s work and Wordle 363 at The Sunday Whirl — a very raw third draft (with the closing couplet added to create a semblance of completion).

Diana Copperwhite, Atomic, 2014 (Image source)

lash me by your wind

Convergence Of The Four Winds by Michelle Vyn

be the wind of lost thought
seeking redemption of ideas

that burn

inside the hollow eyes,

have you ever thought of that pink scarf,
bleached, tattered, zooming through the sky
like a fake smile on your lips?

have you ever heeded the power of a blow
of air on the birthday candles, how it
erases the years lived?

be the wind that you can’t be,
be a smelly fart if need be,
be an ode to nature, or
a quatrain that seeks nothing.

do you know of the neck
that was adorned atop the light
house, where I stood, the wind:
my body, my sheath, my life,

and how it felt to be suspended
with nothing else to spare
but for a breath of air,
hair ruffled,
silences bespoken;

do you know that neck
belonged to me?

I died that second,
and I have been dying
thenceforth.

I am the wind, I am
the power,

and I am invariably caught
in this struggle.

.

Image source
Linking it up with Poets United Midweek Motif.

Bitter Grapes

“The higher the grapes, the bitter they are”-

she goes by the old age adage, satisfying herself

by imprinting her nature Pisces, pieced onto walls

of her mind’s eye, snickering through jaws shut

in a bearing where senility finds her, and she finds

me peculiarly reaching for the grapes, to be bitter

by the syrupiness of her cavalry, my adrenal state,

obtain the key, before she can spot and seize me

.

Image Artist: Nikita Veprikov

For MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie Photo Challenge.

Her Destiny

from within her cage,

she gives voice to her cries,

as she twists her fingers,

waiting for the beast, to pry open

the gates, to her destiny,

.

she is a woman lost,

bewildered, in the wild world,

imprisoned by herself,

she is the color of a dead life,

inflicting herself to solitude,

.

she is the beast herself,

the captive, who could set her free,

but she is too preoccupied,

with the illusion of pain,

forgetting, that she herself is her destiny

.

Photo Source