Dilemma

I hesitated,
for I was not sure
of our return,
together,
from this journey
across your skin.

Our lively whispers,
which had once blossomed
nights of sibilant brooks,
were spent,
sprouting abattoirs
where words bled memories dry.

The streets,
which had pursued us
till they got entangled
with the creases of our palms,
the facades,
which had spied upon us
as we kissed under the neon lights,
seemed hallucinations
of the fornicated flesh.

Sleep, which had once
slurred the distance
between our dreams
and had plaited our limbs,
lies undone.

Now on this trip
time had traveled on
and had left me
with a zipper,
that was stuck midway
of a long thread of breath.
I let go, for I knew
I had become
a fossilized memory
of your flesh.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A Forest

Its not a sanctuary that I want, a forest it is that I desire. Not the manicured lawns and the trimmed hedges. But the growth that is wild, a form of limitless forms. Roots that spill over from the sidewalk and break the monotony of direction. Yes, a living, breathing forest in my city that chokes the roads; breaking their will to go anywhere to let live the paths that go nowhere. Those strangler figs, that have a foothold in the sacred spaces of life the roots that hang from high rises threatening to strangle the living room. The leaves, ominously closer to the sunlight, than the windows that feign the delight. This murderous nightsky, this perennial scavenger of stars, this inverted cityscape, deviant reflection of our mind, illuminated but devoid of any light. In here shall a forest take root snubbing the citylights, letting the darkness prevail and the stars shine bright.
Read more

Loneliness

On this endless street of noise where silence and blood jostle thorugh, sweat and smoke mingle, debris of lost love still lingers. I am a "lot of noise" in my head, horns blaring and myself. A "lot of smoke" in my lungs I am, sooty anger and desperation. A lonely pariah he was. A silent spec on that street of noise. His peaceful sleep is what I stole and since then have stored it in the lonely alleys of my heart.
Read more

Anatomy of Dreams

Somewhere, in the jaundiced morgue of the night, usually awaits sleep- its grubby hands ready to autopsy my calloused dreams. Lodged in the viscera, spring is in fetters, of saris, of skeins of colours, buried inside a barren closet, never to spread its iridescent wings. Gothic raiments of cities hide alleys of gossip (on which we will never loiter) and the twisted arcades of wasting idioms remain sewn to the sepulcher of flesh. The insipid slime of sunlight denude the coarse cinders of spices from my skin. And the winds shed the ruins of melodies which you had sown in me.
Read more