I have not written here since last month. As you all know, India is dealing with the second treacherous wave of pandemic and somehow i managed this . While my parents are still recovering my heart goes out to every life lost, every soul that departed too early. It will take time to accept this loss. The body is in a state of archaic , numb loss.
This emptiness is a sullen sky droplets of opaque women tears with lanterns so bright, it almost blinds you. next to my body rests a stack of another human forms degenerated, transparent as the rain with no family left, words lost bruised up thigh, femur now disjoined. next to my breath, is a women gasping already for a husband, gasping for the open sky. The surgeons of my city are tired, breathless and full of insomnia they stammer and talk about open wounds about lungs so swollen screams of air- air-air across the hallway, screams about ventilators, one more oxygen cylinder. the screams are bluish tint of fever so high now almost strident with trees growing up in the sky. The floors have gone mute, the child is lost counting a mute, tongue less dance: left with nothing. The tampered cassettes are stuck already tethered onto something less painful. Where does this merge to? Where does this lead us now? Shouts , screams and lungs still infected. Time collapsed inside my mouth of fear.
It’s like a sad part of my levitating body.
My fingers have a soft tendency to nurture, to sense pain.
and I sit on the lonely roads to pick up a saddened heart, to heal it.
sometimes, I have a feeling I am solid.
Solid like a vintage door, unbreakable.
Imperishable, who can swallow darkness inside darkness?
So, I produce light out of darkness.
I act like a mother to him, as well.
With clearwing moth like a skin of his,
sewing the gasps and sighs.
His body is made of a fallen moon, I believe so.
And at times, I am confused with the methods of love.
He is a rotating axis on my forehead.
he has leaked, the times I was leaking too.
And I kept quiet and sewed him again and again.
Like a silent prayer of pure holistic clouds.
my clavicle stuttering with the omen of noises.
Nothing is a flattened lie, but a departure.
My eyes are anxious now, to capture your lilting lips.
I watch you as you get healed now,
as I protect you now. You are now an absent face of simmering smiles of the sky.
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.
During the nights of summer, I found a bowl of romance, lust in your sinking eyes. So much I read from it. I collected all my wisdom to read your bizarre words. I disclosed a few readings, read your dying cold murmurings like the lost dandelions in a silent winter night. You are a gargantuan lyric of unsaid phrase. So much to draw from you, so much to read from you. You are the Art of survival.
In the occurrence of solitude, first, this sunshine broke, telling your unfathomable lost emotions. I heard you still survived with a potion and lotion of memories. The concoction of sweet lips and the nectar is always as chilling as the moist air.
We regenerate from each another, sucking sagacious chants, drawing a pool of concave oblivion laughter. Oh, the touches of laughter you had with the dawn and rains in your lap. I knew you were healing steadily, like the owl lost in its precarious world.
You are as liquid as wax, undefined and countless ways of colours you produce each day. Beatific laurels of splashes of lanterns reside in your auburn smiles. I know, you are a masterpiece.
Like autumn leaves my words are shredded
into the oblivious basket of doleful cracked souls.
I rise once again, hoping for a falling star and collecting its
reminiscence into my insipid hair,
only to emboss the flaws and flourish with my insecurities.
Beneath the professing sound of my laughter,
Above the splintery skin of my earlobes
A music of reverie churns inside my naval
like the icicles formed, sticking
to my opaque, incongruous chirpings flowing
in the arms of my composer
my sooth sayer, my caretaker.
The dormant dormitory now kindles,
as the path of dark abyss moves
in the horizon of encapsulating time space
where the drops of my wrinkle free cheeks
move up in the sky,
as that brightest star,
fermenting your once dead spirit,
near your soft pillow.