Tongue of birds
A cluster of sunshine.
Moles of heaviness on my cheeks
I have not been sleeping anymore.
How can I?
I see black moths in my dreams
I am too cood now,
flattened bones of evening.
A thunder to sip and watch.
Gaps are collected on my knuckles.
I need R. E. S. T.
A rest as blue pregnant sky.
Where do I stick flowers now?
The empty faces,
the mundane eyes.
The silhoutte of a dark river
shifting its path across my face,
turn by turn;
Where do I paint red shades of sunset now?
A myth of potpourri,
a lake of setting cold nostrils.
I pray and repeat my rituals,
a soothsayer of my belly now,
a tale forgotten.
A night of crippled stars.
Where do I sit and attach these sunflowers now?
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“I see nothing”- Virginia Woolf
There lies a bed of moisture.
purple hearbeats uttering a syllable of nothingness.
They talk about mad- men, apples and half eaten berries.
For I see wet pastures of land,
moist like mother’s bosom,
fresh and pure.
i see a dot placed in the universe,
a huge platter of yellow potatoes.
inked & full of a queer silence.
People talk of silence as a sin,
and this remains in your grave,
hoping for a tear of melancholy.
i see nothing across my windowsill.
a bird mocks at my crooked almonds,
a burned Poetry.
Or are the people burned around?
A pothole in the eye opens the pathways forward.
A tender desolation.
I am like a feeling of soft romantic fiction.
love that never stays. Brutal.
A panned picture of a pastel tree.
I see a hollow curvature of my elbow,
looking at the sight of black thread.
i see nothing. I am moving & absorbing
as an infant does.
The light shades are my paper prism,
clinging the arbutrus of your sacred space.
As you all know, I have started this lit magazine especially curated for abstract and surreal poetry which means a lot to me and so I urge you all to head over to this link and read this amazing poetry from a fellow poet.
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