poetry

Mute Noises

This room empty,
still folds a language of dots & moisture
holding a voice inside, holding a crescent of love inside.
It has triangular edges, sulking the memories inside.
A bohemian palm doused in laughter.
I linger here and there,
near the corner pale yellow table,
above the square corner of files, soiled poetry.

This room, a woman who is pregnant with all seasons.
Slipping through the comatose screams,
ink spilled on the salmon rug,
A sallow-skinned tear somewhere lost.
a shark shifting in the space.

An array of strange emotions exists on this bedsheet,
mute noises,
my eye of pastel sleep,
I expand a blurb of my mind all across this room,
in whispers,
noises as an arc,
the room is bleached now,
the stains like a parchment.

Things sit like a memory in our body of verbose light,
peeled, light as a foam.

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Our Poetry

Pull me closer to your diamond skin
a place that eats all my molested scars,
in the walls of books and poetry
you shall be my muse, the other half.
of my upcoming poetic line, upcoming splinters of ice,
we make love castles,amidst the dirt hanging like spider web,
Precise knots of commitment are the strongest.
Skin:a reverie of splashing memory,
Something that your lips eat daily.
Turn by turn, inch by inch
we mark each other’s soul
creating geometry, defeating geography.
My collarbone is star dust today,
Ebullient scents from your whisky eyes
expand my artless poetry,
like the writings scribbled onto my library walls,
pink, orange, brown.
Infinite, Indelible.

– my valiant soul

P.s_- To my love, my constant.

poetry

Scars

 

 

 

Image result for artists emotional paintings
image credits- Pinterest

 

Beyond this cracking wall, in the horizon of that empty dusk,
I walk in the blues of protrusion of my floral cheeks
my mind scratched, my heart stabbed
A partition of a falling star and constellation of stars
a Meraki of a paper boat, if you know
I walk in unknown thorns, small, oval, sweet and bitter
if bitterly waves reside in this moment, I shall conjure my body
with naked dust
And that dust will still hurt my iris,
for my eyes has seen the deep red scar

© My Valiant Soul


poetry

All I crave

 

Au coin de feu, Detail. by Auguste Toulmouche (1878)
image credits- Pinterest

 

It’s like crawling slowly and steadily on my skin, my cold skill refuses that baked slice

of lemon to provide composure, oh, the moon, show me your silver beam in this sunny gold pyramid.

It’s something like a blatant truth now suffocating my inside organs.

Clenching my unsaid words, devouring my amorphous fidelity

And, all my fingers crave is to play the music of your heart.

                                                                   ©My Valiant Soul