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.