I am coming back to my writing my poems after a while
a lot changed during these times.
(Pandemic- second wave)
My yellow tree remained un-watered all this while,
relatives, families submerged with tears/ fears
see my poem has started to rhyme, even.
Keep on reading
you will sense no sensibility
a bunch of lost flowers now
razor sharp like tongue of cries
bodies once warm now muted,
cold, without a twin flame.
the situation has become small and painful
like a setting sun, only that it is not beautiful.
I could dissolve and dismantle both in your arms. Your concave dripping horizon. Here, sweet nectars of a word, alliteration efflorescences. Poultice killing ant-eaten wound. I put my oblong waist inside your palms to catch the last nights fits and sins, sinister. You breathe effortlessly, like a paper chewing the drops of rain, steadily and I watch you smoking naked. I shrink, cinnamon fingers dipped in writing as I paint you in my slivers of lost chills. I see you marking my territory, with hazelnuts and pepper, cracking one by one. You announce me your wild bitch.The galaxy ruptures between your words and my forehead mole. We are all sinners.
I am awake, in the cauldrons of your magic that rubs my backbone, similar to the mountain ranges romancing with the sunshine. The spikes and fumes drove me madcap when my arm flew in the vapid motionless air. It was your A B S E N C E. The air balmy and dead. I roamed naked and baked naked. with my face sagging beyond the levels of my bosom. It was Saturday and your A B S E N C E.
And, it is a fixation now. Crystal studded your eyes with my silhouette, marrying my body from that broken pale toe to my hair. I circle and hover my dandelion legs to sense the reality, the sun-baked air filled with our fabled romance and memories. The room is a temple and this is the reality.
image and words©MVS- Something new that I tried!
Sugar granules on my eyelids
define the numb, static voice
beneath the waves of poetry,
The times flutter on asymmetrical length
hypnotical lifeless mellow tunes.
Words break, poetry aborts
A mother takes a life of her son.
It’s sharp. Black.
As I think, a tree detaches a leaf
As I swirl, a star weeps
End. End. End.
Nature perspires wax,
drooling loose vibrations,
Ink is lacking from my blood.
My blood is blue in reverse order, stale.
How many more tantrums?
Time is satirical,
and my body sinks in pits of crime
Analogies weep and mother smirks.
Time ruins beautiful things,
spring- Ataxia of Poetry.
P.S- It’s not a complete Eulogy, but it’s quite insane to think what if one day it is?