For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror

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.

Only on Sundays is the street neither drunk on traffic nor binged on smoke. Though its stale breath still reeks of noise and through its slurred speech drip faint echoes of its quaintness. In the tenuous silence numbness of the facades melt and edifices bellow the wrinkles of haphazardness. Houses squat like decrepit old men, that have cataract ridden dead eyes for windows with pigeon poop in their conjunctiva. And if you were searching for the hints of humanity behind those sooty eyes, you would find shadows whose light was the mound of filth piled on the bosom of the street. Unshackled by the din, wails from the trash convey to the sleeping gods above of the desire for freedom of the shadows of men. At times, moon blossoms at the end of the street, but then shies away from the psychedelic runes of the shop fronts. But the street pines away, and in its reveries, dreads the tumult of a Monday morn