My poetry is my religion.
the ink drop bleeds from my wound of the past
how beautifully, it drops throwing my mask in the sheet
like the vapours colliding the sky
the exuberant eye-catching landscape
drip , drip it falls on the paper, from my breath to my leg
from my mind to the tree that made this paper
I give my fragrance, wrapped in a fur to my words.
I give breath to my scratched skin
Auburn circles of faith, drooling hope in my throat
choking my senses to deliver the web of matched periphery of dawn to dusk.
I am hanging from the top of colossal tree, where children and lovers come
to bask in the mirth of my golden shade,
My sapphire corset lying in the turbid laps of nature
under the paintings of blues and purple
above the yellow, purple neighbours
in the memory of Olympic soil
I cherish the glamour, the petrichor
the crisscross on my head,
the elysian corners of hugging my pits
I am soaked in the essence that fascinates this moment,
As I am An Auburn circle of desire,
A daydream sweet pie, A hot ball of shines and flicker.
A solitude in everything.
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