If I were a shadow.

Through the slices of segmented desire
Where the circumference of my peevish skin expands,
I inhale into the tiny molecules that flourish these numb walls,
Mending a crack,
With a mist of romance,
Point of lust, point of dainty smell of you.
I walk through the ruptures of placcid walls enunciating your presence,
And I peel the rim of this cucumber time zone
Where my legs fall in the abyss of surreal moments of you,
Like clicking of needles, rainwater puddle upon my iris,
Now beaming
As if I were a shadow of your dream.
A dream worth swallowing the darkness,
Just to produce the moon’s composure, a debonair companion.

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The way it is.

 

image credits- Pinterest

A box of hidden muse resides in my heart. I try to hear the amorphous murmur the times I am cold in my warm blanket. The smoke and ashes brew a pool of blurry images, my past tales that plunge deep into my veins, unable I am to move. Numb my thighs remain, numb my eyes remain.

My room walls have gone pale, shooting bullets in my mouth, it hurts.

The conundrum scissors mock my caricature, forming turbulence on my ceilings, in my ceilings. Nothing erupts out but the insipid cold droplets of heartaches, drop by drop it falls on my fingernails, burning like ice, cold as ice, that is how numb I float in the horizon of duplex walls.

Like my chin resting on that eccentric needle, swords fighting producing my legs and arms, now they remain silent and here is the time, when the incumbent work is at a halt.

So I wither and wither.

 

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Dark howl

I am no summer breeze. Neither I am a warm blanket to provide that yearning, surreal warmth.
My own soul is shivering, heart sees cracks here and there, Irrevocable my tears are on this pillow.
Fierce, ghost-like shadows perching on my knee joints,
It hurts. It hurts my paradise dreams.
And you say I am ignorant about the moon and its dark howl.

For I am a Woman.

image credits-Pinterest

 I am a protrusion of rose,
hiding the black spot of the moon in my valour
that rises white dandelions on your skin.
My finger bones creak my virtues,
giving a red shade to the once grey shadow
for I am a Woman, invincible like mammoth stars,
I seek, I wander through the rim of sidewalks
conjuring in roles only unspeakable of.
I walk, I swim, I conquer, I am a swollen mass of expectations
I carve sunflowers, lavender on my forehead,
a thorn indeed wrapped in the interiors of my lips,
my sun-baked lips,
still the succulent lips
oh! My lips.
And then my heart speaks a language of ripe fruits,
yellow pages, white pages all inside
burning a canopy of emotions
Decaying, nurturing, flourishing.
for I am a woman, invincible like mammoth stars.

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Carvings

The black petals
On my backbone
Fluttering mysteries
Like stupefied
Vintage buildings
Resemble your devouring thoughts,
That cling to
My mouth
My backbone
My forehead
My cheekbones and
My heart
In a insepid mundane pattern
Of a dead leaf.

More of you.

Look deep, shades of blue and black

the eyes of satan, the eyes of cupid

the chains of sorrow, the crack of a backbone,

the loss of blood, look harder

into the bowl of rippling water

the gargantuan stay of evil

flickering in my veins

flickering in your veins

rub roses now, dip into holy waters

dip into your reflection

correct the haywire roads

spray the scent on your collarbone

wear the white pearls around your neck

now you shall see

the more of you.

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Shades of emotion-the black-the red-the grey

The Black

Hoops of the anxious soul are hanging in the most voracious way.I hear thunder, rustling silence.This is my first phase, anger.

The intimidating red eyes. The eyes of satan, they say. The faded shades of grey, charcoal, as my wrist remain crossed.

I put my wrist on top of my forehead.The sagging forehead.

The conundrum geography exists right here, sharply ecstatic.

Hot wax, profound depth, a lingering cold wave.

A dark, gruesome heart.

A ghost- like canopy of thoughts.

The Red.

This is a melancholic phase.

A lugubrious red sorrow shining on my pinky finger, the tales of the darkly skinned elbow.

the bends on my skin, my crooked skin.

the way sky forms uneven patterns,

leaving us bewildered of the richness, the great creations.

All I see is complexities, the bars of a collision, gateway of numbness.

A stoppage.

The vague dreams.

Now the heart is crooked.

The Grey.

A wave of cornered soul resists like the last droplets of rain.

Tiring yellow pages, not desiring to be read further.

Monotonous paths, monotonous tones, monotonous human.

I kiss my pain in a breezing way, hugging my own doleful pits.

the screams forms chains of comfort, the sky is indicating a pattern,

the crookedness is recovering into a deeper hole

name it comfort?Name it a bliss. Oh!Don’t name it.

As it’s still  a vivid hole, murky,

dark, distilled in my conscious, collided with my mindset,

it’s grey here, my palm is feverish

my eyelids are the coherence of deeper shades of grey

this is the phase,

this is the ultimate revival, mystical.

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