I unwrap myself from the red linen shroud
And head towards the wavering closet.
Today the skeleton seems less proud,
Stupefied, only relatively.
Sometimes I take it out and waltz with it,
It seems the right thing to do.
Sometimes I carry it on my friendly shoulders,
Hoping its rage would undo.
Then there are times when I shun it away
To acknowledge its inexistence.
And veiling myself with the shroud, I stay
Till I am disrupted by the rattling of bones
Walking back towards my bed,
I lie down, crying still
With the skeleton at my elbow,
It’s a story of me I want to ****
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 8:57 AM UTC
It’s funny how we’re always taught
To respect and understand
Other people’s opinions.
No matter how crass,
antiquated, absurd,
or obnoxious
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
So much was wrong with us
Our love
A fiery tendon binding us together,
Whilst filling you up, marring me
If your sweet memories of me are fading,
Know that you are ebbing in the strands of
my memory
And if you quiver at the sight of me, still
I will kiss your fine mouth till dawn
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 8:55 AM UTC
Life is a wayfarer.
On some days Life will plod round in the city,
Immersing itself in the quotidian
Feel daft in the company of meaninglessness,
Feculent friendships.
And I will miss my halcyon days
at the helm of such an existence.
‘This too shall pass’, that’s what they say?
So, life craves for wanderlust (and lust itself, indeed)
Something that infects it with fire from within,
A feeling that sunbeams flow in the lining of the skin;
I crave, I hunger
For the one that will never abandon me on the shore
Of the heart and mind that I grow my roots in
Life will live for this consuming passion,
This tempest that I’ve witnessed will gradually quieten.
Now in this free, really free verse
I shall tell the extraordinary futility of Life.
Memento mori
About why, like Life, I should bother
Betwixt overwhelming agony and spasmodic pleasures;
Crawl over many little deaths:
Life nestles into Death, and cracks it up
Like a butterfly opens its cocoon
Into an afterlife of pulchritude.
Life is just in one long slumber, and Death
Merely a friend who awakens it.
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC
still, so still..
a musty odor abutting against my door
percolating from the malodorous appendages of a subordinate
feigning work at this late night hour.
And my frazzled CFL is glistening over
intolerable Latin, scribbled before my eyes for me to devour
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC