For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror

Could I ever measure, the void across her face? If so, what scales or units would suffice ? Would the shudder  of recognition  be adequate ? Or will the incessant jibes of mirror  be enough ? What about the depth of the scar ? Was it deep enough to be the void in her identity ? How about the  confusion of expressions ? Was that smoke, from the fires burning in the void, emanating from her eyes ? Or was it the dim light of a fading smile ? How much love could stitch that chasm, or unstitch that moment when liquid hate had gnawed her sinews of humanity, to leave a void, at the center of her being?

Beneath the rug of the city, the earth felt uneasy. She felt disembodied in her eternal body. In an age, she hadn't been felt. No foot had lost its shoe to probe her wetness. Fingers hadn't tousled her, grabbed her and then let her run free. Long had it been since she drifted into eyes and had become an irritant, like a dream.

For months I have accumulated, my soul in the soles, of my shoes. And now  I am going to wear it down, on the road, and expose all its layers. At first,  I will scrape the grime of the city against the gravel. Naked, rolling on the moist verdant grass, I will wipe off, the indifference of the, "now". And when my skin is green and raw, and the wounds  expose me, when the cold wind purifies the oozing self, I will offer  it to that dwindling  path in the forest. There will be  no return, for the soles shall be so worn, that the soul will be a demarcation of  the roads

Darkness squirmed above the tumult of flailing limbs. Caresses deft spilled light soft, from the conjoined flesh, over the brim. Rivulets of light tasted like the sea, salty and incipient of life. The lapping sighs, and the crashing waves of guttural moans unleashed an odorous strife. In the redolence of our entangled breaths we discover, the pungent, ancient ocean of creation. Through our eyes we drain it into our memories as an act of preservation.

On the hallowed steps of a cauldron ancient, I stand. Where the alchemy of symmetry was sculpted by unknown hands. On the pallet of the sky were chiselled the ‘ nagaras ’. On the mountains of clouds were carved the ‘ vimanas ’. Into the inchoate stones were engraved the music of ‘ ragas ’. Into the unformed shapes were sculpted the tempo of ‘ talas ’. Curlicues multitude depict the legends of yore. O mighty ‘ Chalukyas ’, the arabesques intricate speak of your lore. In the darkness divine of ‘ garbhagrihas ’, still linger your passions. In the quietude of ‘ mandapams ’, echo your victory chants with, effusion. O temples of ‘ pattadakal ’, you are the flowers of imperishable bloom. In rains do your beauty awaken, to fight off time’s impending doom.