The Ghost is back

Apprehensions sink in the dark cloudy layers

like the kohl of my waterline, the kohl of my heart

I am a clown or that saint of the temple, for people misjudge me

With deposition of tears, I shall settle too

in the obnoxious satin walls of turbulent words

Something swells up on my neck, triangles and diversion.

Trepidation. Trepidation.

The wax of candles is stuck to my mind,

dripping anger or illusion

the folds of my bedsheet recall my tear

perfectly imbued with the corrosive words, the abuses.

I decay again.

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