When -the -pendulum- strikes

During nights, my body becomes a range of chemicals. The nocturnal nails dip in the swamp of black thoughts. My windowsill evaporates, fumes of my detailed miseries. It’s not saddening what my mind does to my hand and arms. My hair bun, all soaked in summer sweat, dripping anxiety like forlorn tales of missing cities and people. Cleaved heart with tossed skin, my yellow skin delivers light during the phosphene of night.Tangling and swinging, the ebb of my calves lift up like candle flames floating. I cling moist conversation to my entire body parts. Inch by inch. I unwrap the stagnant proliferating blood shadows slowly as my cigarette fades. Silence is the best healer. The wounds chop the underlying skin, razor teeth on my mind. Time defies body, time defies truth, time defies the eye.

I often take a pen and mark my mouth with words and poetry. Periphery protects a savoured soul. Soil: it marks the beginning and the ends like a mirror-crack. Insanity is not what I would call it! During nights, my body regenerates, a cotton swab soaked and firm like Osmosis emerging inside. My body becomes wild.
It’s a symmetry of red dot with a black line. It delivers a soliloquy speech of life and death. Something that my orchid coffin understands and my bizarre soul knows. Chemistry shoots up my body like a talking death hoop. During nights, my body eats my mind.

©MVS- NaPoWriMo#3


Dark- Tea-Tales

Related image
image credits- Mary Cassatt

Come sit, have a cup of the black tea, I prepared.
The story is long for your forlorn heart would claim the pain in a moment or two.
The chain I talk today, oh, sorrow is diabolical.
So frugal, barbarous.
The inside of my heart left the colonies of fairy dust as if.
As I cross my wrist, hear the crackle of the bone.

The crackle of my solitude.
lit in my eyes,
blazing
the burning glaze you see,
the dilapidating music you hear,
come sit, have another cup of the black tea.
The ruckus runs through my dry skin, joining dots on my skin,
creating shambles like a dead corpse
creating paradox.
The arms extend late nights to grab a bottle of comfort, you see?
The comfort — a meadow, oh, the sweet meadow.
Peace like the ravishing Orchids, white nature.
Yes, the soft feather stating, gorgeous wings, infinite joyous tales to discover.
Oh, you finished the tea, wish a refill?
For this soul can say the darkest of the chronicles,
like the flowing wishful, the evergreen Ganges.

©My Valiant Soul