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.