"Woman"
Where amidst the storm,
You decided to stoop.
For what gold and beef,
You stoop near the pillory.
Why Amidst the scar of hounds,
You decided not to draw sword,
And bleed from beneath and within.

Love for broken glasses,
Though it bleed,
Was her own choice.
To live in the broken dreams,
Was her choice?
"Better a compulsion of love,
To bleed and love."

Love the smell between toned thighs?
Smell it till it stinks so bad,
Then would you eat what lies behind.
If for sake of love,
Stinks so worse still makes you mad,
Slouch down and pull your hands out.
Love may be it for you fell prey to stink.
Love the uncut smile, drowsy breast?
Lay on the ***** till it feels hard,
Then would you press on to it.
If for sake of love,
One that ***** is heart still hugs you,
Close your eyes and lay on the *****.
Love maybe it for you fell pray to hardness.

Pain near her ******
She puked twice and fainted once,
Still aching and reddening.
Pain too chronic-
That began as he born,
With head out and nails,
To severe the home.
The umbilical chord,
That he held from home,
Is now withered,
The rope that strangles her face.
The pain so heavy,
Stained with his blood-unbearable but bears.
Still she breast-feeds his dreary canine.

Love is a need.
A need for catastrophe,
Within self and another soul.
Love, but a social need,
For transactions,
That arts illusion in mind.
Thus love is a need of illusion.

Can you draw spiral stars,
On the broadest daylight
Or maybe a mushroom,
On a slight dusky spring morning.
The world of artifacts,
With metals and rust and
Currents and power can.
Can you paint with blood and flesh,
The script of new face, -  blind parades of dead.
A spring morn with fluttering twigs for nest and next-
That day when her lips,
Filled with joy leaped to touch the sky,
Only metals and power,
Vanquished the laughter-
But sounds do never lost,
Haunt the birds that build nests.
Mushroom grew from the dust,
Spat blood on the throne of heaven,
That ended the spring,
With wintry rustle.
................................
Only a while ago,
As he looked up to the sky,
Heart sank and drowned,
As the airbus boomed atop.
For who knows,
What way life may turn.
Some uranium may sing his voice next,
Or some birds may sit on void perch.
The sound ceased, his heart thumped,
In the sounds of hustle bustle,
His sound lost enough,
To be heard, as the nest is empty.
For power and artifacts, we follow,
We walk to the scythe,
And little we know,
That we water seeds of extinction,
With more metals and salts of pride.

Spring a gore noise,
Autumn a wet sponge.
When birds in spring
Unloved and un-kissed.
When rain drops in autumn
Wets no shoulders.
Spring, a death lament
When moths do move,
But with winds - with no song.
Autumn, a funeral drum,
When no rain but dreams plummet,
Spattering over the blaze.
Cuckoo's cry or petrichor,
When unloved is broken harp or roasted almond.
But, spring is not the death lament,
For moths who buzz no more,
May hope to fill lips with violin scream.
But, spring is not the funeral drum,
For petrichor may join the lavender,
Wet together may fill with life.
Spring and winter, two unsung soul.

Sky is the end of the race,
All we do is pedal to it.
Some moves so far
That their roots are torn.
Endless they strive,
But up to where?
The void? The sand ship?
But where ends the sky?
All we tend to kiss the sky and strive,
Under our prayer and sweat.
Some with wings, some in dreams,
Some with boats or rafts, we walk,
But to which horizon
The sky ends?

Branches roasted with summer
That yielded fruits
Too lethal and crook
In caprice much and more,
Ages before that sipped the solitary room
And now with withered leaves-
Wags to lean towards the sky through bars too rusty to lean.  
As summer sun grills
Arms coaxing to the root
Beneath the sky
To break away  with the harp
That marks the decree of free lark,
Free, free from the closet that imprisons the leaves.
Deep within the bars
With screeching voice
Sings the freedom
To summon the rain of victory.
Free, free,  free
Aching voice of leaves, sound and cease,
Till inferno burns to ashes that flutters with wind and hark,
Free, free, free.
Some ages in past winter winds
Rustled over the twigs
Whiped the skin
Too damnation the closet felt
That fruits too lethal do rot
And as sweet peach appeared, the summer screeched.

While I painted the bird,
It always flew,
For captive is too gross.
I wished to hope,
My heart always painted the hope,
But captive is too gross after all.
Bird and hope, best friends?

Rains do dry,
Before it drench.  
Spring is dead,
Before it blossomed.
Smile is constant,
As lips freeze,
And eyes too pale to speak.

I parted the curtain,
To see the larks screech,
But as a little went off,
Howl and tears,
Birds creeping with pain,
Music has been a rush,
Music of bullets,
Painted the neighbour.
Fear,
I turned down the curtain,
For my heart,  
Folly and frail,
Though hopes to assure rain and spring,
Words but no action to render.
But veil too thin to contend the gore,
Maybe the birds screeched till it joined the music of bullets again,
Who knows?
My cozy bed took me to my dreams.

My dreams,
A cacophony of foolish poetry,
Somedays in my sleep,
Flown by petals,
A red one
That carries me away,
From the silver hue of wintry earth,
To the land that hatches spring and autumn,
Not to far from the hut,
But far away from trains or cabs.
Near golden tree,
Is the spring field,
Where cuckoo's screech like cawing,
And crows cry like lark,
A folly place to travel at,
But one should know it,
That silence values it all.
The lakes houses shrimps and frogs,
That feeds water and froth.
Sky painted with wings and trodden feet,
But one should know it,
That feet travel high with joy and "lie".
My dreams,
Harks more,
Of changes that change
My dreams,
Swims me across to,
Where painters paint at lakes and sky,
Poets write lives free and frail,
As quill that sits no more,
But fly to find new horizon for "poets and wrecked" .
My dreams,
A trove of rant,
Where  words are colors,
and colors  are words,
Mind free and flesh swaying,
Painting and writing the incredible life,
Where cows have wings and,
Apples on woman's womb.
My dreams,
The unpleasant time's slice,
An scroll of spring that,
Dreams withhold,
and next to it the letter that brings,
Winter so dread and cold,
That carcasses do fly and wither.

Mosquitos buzz near our ears
To invest on flesh,
Annoyed we shed blood.
We cry and croak near Thee,
To invest on not less but little more always,
Annoyed Thee tears apart both little we have and flesh.

Mornings are radiant,
But clouds do hover-
Mornings do I love,
Till morning makes me blind,
For the rest of time
Mornings are cruel,
As it unravels the visage.