first meeting

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of an igniting kind,
your eyes held an allure,
the iridescent gaze never touching me,
but keeping stable the carefully-crafted
space between us,
between restraint and desire,
demarcating our manner of speaking,

i wonder if you knew of my need to forego any
responsibility, why i did not take the first step
towards breaking the hazard of a first meeting,

i had held my words close to my chest,
tasted eucalyptus at the back of my tongue,
crafting the sounds of my voice in a way
that they shall not dissect this set order,

i was scared, i am scared, still, that i can
not be trusted to peer through a pair of eyes
to know or begin to know, all that i seek
and all that i may want,

your resting pose only perplexed me,
i seemed to be lost in my sapling-like
mind, a single thought rising in warmth
(this is where it begins to fade)
drinking the sunlight off your face, and
the silence of my dusk-enamored smiles.

your leave-taking compounded my interest
in that yearning, and not your absence —
i keep it near and vanquish the details
of the loneliness, of that solitary evening,
which is not mine to hold on to.

it is also yours. i accept,
pulling back my heartstrings.

.

© Anmol Arora

Image source (Man with a heart-IV by Stanislav Bojankov)
Linking it up with the Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads

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a sunset song

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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.

an evening reverie (iii)

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bricks, mortar, dull-white paint shedding
down the wall — the iron rods sticking out
like the full flush of loneliness — pennies
stuck to my palate — empty eyes stinging

with an evening demand for staying, clay
pots scattered, broken melon lips linking
skies with mouthed words, those unsaid
are never too dull – fuchsia pink – boiling

tricks, sweating armpits, a pulsing heat —
smoking, sweltering, steaming —

.

Image source

That kind of an evening — linking it up with Poetry Pantry at PU.

an evening reverie (ii)

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signaling the day-end is a light
soft to touch, sweet in its flavor, dark
in its attire, wiping smiles and words
from my ramshackle lips  – empty eyes

carrying in its hold wry remembrance,
it tricks me by wind-woven fingers,
playing with a velvet shadow, blue-green
in color, smooth dew-leaves in temper.

.

Image source
(Anticipation of the evening coolness by Nikolai Taidakov)

Edit: Linking it up with Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads

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.

untitled (verity)

.

where do truths come from and where do they go to die?

in this dreary consolation of time, I can see the whirl
of their wheels, and banished desires living on scraps.

if you’d told me of this night two nights back, I’d have believed
but never more.
who’s to say when the flowers droop and colors fall off of the sky?

it’s an inlaid embroidery; intricacy paves the way for simplicity –
I see babies cooing to each other, and people fucking their lives up
in search of one consoling hand. I see men showing junk, and women
trying to hide their breasts, both from an obsolete sense of loss.

where do lives begin and where do they fall over?

in this nest of living and unliving, dying and undying,
I carve lines into the air, of desire, of an unintended mirth
and we laugh. We laugh, we weep, but we just can’t hold each other.

we just can’t hold each other up anymore.

things fall apart.
my lips bleed, my body’s sore and the sour taste lingers in my mouth.
things fall apart.

.

For “A Skyflower Friday” writing prompt at With Real Toads.

Instagram: mypeculiarself
Facebook: facebook.com/aaha12345
Snapchat: anmol901 

planet earth is blue and there’s nothing I can do

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an infidel runs out to the street
to gaze at the five planets which aren’t there,
the whore ties her hair in a bun
to sing to the moon draped behind the clouds,
and the starving mutt barks

creating a collapsing sense of reality,
where sound & vision are marred by
the man who sold the world,

the goblin king wreathing gold coins
enumerating the faces in pain, and
the pain in faces.

how odd is that space of un-belonging,
how dust from stars fall into my eyes
to let me see and let me think, and burn
from ashes to ashes, from skin to skin,

I did relinquish the desire of faith and fate,
I stole the diamonds from his eyes
but they were just buttons with no life,

so in the end, there are only dreams
and that tiny whimsy bit of hope
that has to be quashed, in order
to live.

the whore’s song has died.
the infidel castrated,
the starving has starved,
and I,
I, done with the world.

.
Image source

A Farewell to David Bowie. Linking it up with With Real Toads.