The slip

moldavia: ““ph. Ola Rindal ” ”

Is it still there?
The sound of trespassers,
of purple rains and sweet smell.

A cloud that swings words up in the sky
a hardened shell of a life,
There is a beautiful cottage that I see in my dreams
full of centipedes, vintage mahogany chairs.
A sound travels me up there
in between the unreal beauty of soil.

Life unfurls in the corners of my room,
my small used rooms,
forever palpitating,
my hand roams, kissing the aesthetics of nature,
here,
I dissolve my tongue,
rubbing my elbows,
again and again.
to spit surreal poetry.

My house slips in my dreams like a flower
trapping, my body like silk.
And I would stay here.

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my valiant soul

A dreamer and a believer for the upliftment of women rights. A published poet, author, writer. Believes in dancing and cooking amazing food for hungry souls at times. Loves to write and write till the moon is satisfied. My writings can be found at Visual Verse, Indian Periodical, Sick Lit mag, Duane's Poetree, Thistle magazine, among various others. Curator of Olive Skins.

29 thoughts on “The slip”

  7. The imagery is compelling! I am reading your poem over and over again. Home is where the heart is the popular saying; someone’s dream house is symbol of their psyche or perhaps soul. I’m wondering, who or what was the trespasser. Not that I need to know here, the poem works – imho.

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  8. Always in awe of your work, you have a unique voice and a gift for drawing the reader into your world. I can’t pick a favourite line with this one but I felt that this passage was particularly worth noting:

    “I dissolve my tongue,
    rubbing my elbows,
    again and again.
    to spit surreal poetry.”

    Keep the surreal stuff flowing 🙂

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