And after the things have been quiet,
a slow nocturnal pause returns
a pause to collapse again,
There is an endless whistling,
with a bleached sky
a bleached portion of the sunset
I can still touch it,
the surface of things breaking apart,
the nuisance of the blood vessel
the hanging canopy of faces: dry/parallel.
The night takes everything within itself,
abandoned by all,
it has not the face of love.
I know the sniff of abandonment
where the night spews distorted loneliness
through my body – a pool of flustered pink love.
———————————————————
I wrote my poetry book – Crimson Skins out of pain, love, despair. Hope you like it too. Links can be checked out here- IT’S AVAILABLE AT HALF THE COST ON POTHI.:) I have posted the reviews for my book in past posts, check it out if you are skeptical. I would appreciate it.
Crimson skins – US
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How many times do I shift my bodily postures?
from a room so cold, so absolute,
to a room full of hopes.
There is a never -ending system
of dying things in here.
I move like a ‘banjaran’
wishing for dead leaves,
painted auburn sky
sunlight hitting my pale, loose skin,
I move to hide my burnt scar,
throbbing now
layers of cold ripped moths biting each other.
How many times do I slip from this moment?
wrapped into a crochet woven by memories,
How many times do I defy my existence?
Fragments of red – like winters forming on my chest.
How many I times I become countless?
(banjaran- a wanderer)
MY VALIANT SOUL 
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