seeded cherries are your lips,
blood is our wine —
we drink from the mouth
of a night’s vestigial appendage,
when the sky speaks of ecstatic
pains & pining sighs of a merlot-
moon.
cinnamon rings are my eyes,
russet are our limbs —
we feed on the saplings
of our fingers, the perspiring
sacrilege of our arduous
dreams & deep lines of a copper-
eclipse.
.
© Anmol Arora
Day 7
(Inter)National Poetry Month
drinking a night’s naivety
down my throat,
my tongue seared at your lips,
in a ploy of breaths,
of tastes exchanged
in a whiskey-gulp.
i bundled my skin together
at a kiss’s knotted-end,
i let my head fall down
the vacuum of your voice.
.
© Anmol Arora
For dVerse Quadrille #73
Image source (Dean Rossiter Abstract Painting – “Final Fatal Kiss” – abstract painting)
waking up,
riding through
a dream’s galloping pace,
i wonder
if i bypassed my need
to be touched,
strung like a kite
against the face
of a shy-sky —
his eyes an empty-colour of opportunity, my skin,
a canvas bled —
the night lingered
like a lizard, in the thrall of a fly,
hovering over my lips.
© Anmol Arora
A 55-er for Art FLASH at WRT
Read screwed
a necessary conclusion —
the lined-shadows of a wing,
falling apart in full-flight,
the sky opens its peach-lips
for a kiss, too far, not enough
in the erection of this exigency
to reach out for a nude name
of belonging.
when your comforting arms
become stifling, intimacy runs out
the door, before it gets too late.
.
© Anmol Arora
A 55-word verse for Art FLASH/ 55 at With Real Toads, where Kerry prompts us to write a short-verse, taking inspiration from a piece called Moth-Woman by @luke.ink.
Image source (Twilight Time by Ellen Henneke)
a touch was sought and received, whence
fingers gouged 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.
HA's Place 