with our bodies colliding
this night sings a song of petunia,
a soft spring blooming behind our feet.
A velvet yawn of a quiet afternoon.
The night is a tiny flower
thumping against the sun-kissed breaths
a hum of summer,
a hum of winter.
The mouth dipped in the greasy elbows,
a pathway to the flowering petals.
Silver droplets of water,
the body shrinks like a caterpillar now,
sparkles of the rain,
Too many screams now,
too many abstract bodily postures.
This night delivers a tangled knot of whispers of leaves,
like salt, the whispers rubbing our elbows, quietly.
Hushed.
A season of moist talks.
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For Indian Readers check out Amazon or Bookswagon.
Night breaks apart like thousand skies on Earth
with a hint of mauvish whisper
the whisper spills everywhere
enveloping things around me.
Dreams create illusion of being permanent
of sticking to the odd times
with a mayhem stuck to the air.
You would wish to sit and digest
each tiny aspect of dreams
with a mind of a spider
trying to decode the methods
but you would end up missing on your pills.
It does not matter
anymore
the warm shade of conclusions
till the time your hands are rooted in the soil
till the time you hands feel the pain,
yellow or orange.
There is something to change the blood into passion,
dreams that becomes nightmares
colours that become a chalice of poison.
It does not matter.
