My loneliness spews from the dark curtains
/ fevering beneath a molted lampshade, running
amidst the hanging treehouse, a sharp blue gong of a temple.
Upon the arrival of next month, my tongue develops a sickness,
In a nonchalant abrupt way,
Defying the lucid crispness of nights,
I carry a storm of perforated stars in my womb,
delivering a slick wall of hope, again till the next month arrives.
I have a list of ways in which I take care of myself-
Practicing gratitude till the eyes die out of numb shocks,
Watching the surreal wings of birds, till I am being judged
And the process never ends,
Till the process of death is shining on my iris.
Buy my poetry collection ‘ Crimson Skins’ here- U.S
And for Indian readers buy your copies here-
The book is available as Kindle as well as on Barnes and Noble, Book Depository.