For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror

I wonder what the forest feels when the cold comes probing  its shame? Its tremulous green turning into a kaleidoscope of blush. Those boulevards of rotten veins, which had once echoed with sunlight, now spill their harlequin epitaphs onto the sky.

It hasn’t been long since my father’s stroke but, I am already forgetting the smell of his voice. That whiff, in which we could hear the squelch of anxious bodies jostling on a Railway Station. Our voices hung over his reticence like crimes. And his few words were rust barely holding the metal of a sentence together. The angst of his boyhood would often crumble through the grease of time like oxidised self. While he eased the sorrows of machines the cogs of his family eroded. His love for us was measured in his privations. The cadavers of his frayed shirts and the fossils of his worn shoes were like the deserted cities, held together by ghettoes  of hope. In rooms, which grieved of claustrophobia, my mother’s shame would drain his embrace and his respite. The streets where she perished, and he lost the syllables of speech; at their zenith noise will be deep. But I must reach to...

I rummage through my nights, scores of browser tabs at a time, in search of anodynes to disrupt the gearbox of aches, whirring beneath my skin. Enmeshed stars of lust and loneliness, grinding time into a trickle of Dopamine or entangling it into an angst ridden scribble. In the jism stained habits of yesterdays, to which cling the charred smell of orgasms, I snort through my eyes the cocaine of writhing flesh till the sclera is a montage of dead pixels submerged in the humors of neon light.