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A skin for your desires.
Made of things,
That you wish to sing.

A skin for your desires.
Sitting proud on your bones,
And you calling youself unknown.

A skin for your desires.
Accomplished by liars.
Of silver tongued ******.
A ceremony of abuse.
It is a Valley of Ghosts.
With imprints of lives
Frozened in it's space.
Let to sit and overgrown in time.
With all it's greens
And it's windy chimes.
The laughter and sighs
Of the magnificent climb,
Is what the mountain holds.
And every step of the way
Will be forever gold.
This is for Dzukho valley and it's mountain, which is situated in the Eastern most region of India. It is empty yet full with moments and natural splendors.
Your soft breath upon my face
It slithers through the feathers of my hair.
The scent of your skin,
Presses me into tender dreams.
As your eyes gently lift up to meet mine.
I hastily drifter mine.
As your stare rolls over my face.
My timid eyes ended up staring
Onto the swiftest corners of your body.

What would I say, if you caught my gaze?
A simple taste of desire,
Has left my body, caught in fire.
Fever it is, that deep look on your face.
As the room spreads out the moment
Into a lifetime, into ocean and space.
And again my lips trembles,
As the tip of my tongue tries hard,
To lick away the dry and delicate circumstance.

You rub your fingers on my arm
Playfully with a soft disguise of empty eyes.
I know you're staring at me.
You know I'm staring back at you.
What more do we need,
In this moment of truth?
No words will suffice.
Except for a gaze in your eyes.
The moment, before you realize that you are in love.
I'll wrap you in blue
Draw silver to your design
Among crystal lines
In divine lights.
My love is red
Alive in wine.
Red in blue
Soft on skin
Standing in green.
My love is red
The most I've gained
Inspite of all the weights.
Stripes imperfect
Heavy in all shades.
Something that grow and grows and goes
Through doors and more and glows.
But in time it blows and draws,
The life out of your clothes.
That's when you sleep and snores
Till cold creeps, dry your bones.
And all you know went and gone.
All of life dead and drawn.
As Gandhi said: "Whatever you do in life will be insignificant." I guess it's true. But he also said: "it's important that we do it, because nobody else will." I know for a fact that this is true.
You know me, you see me.
But most of the time you deny me.
I'm a part of you, everyone of you.
One day you'll realize me.
That is the truth.

I'm not a fantasy, I'm reality.
I'm the night to your day.
I'm the end to your cautious.
Yet not free from your emotions.

When I come, I'll run your river dry.
I'll be the reason of your heartaches.
But that is when I see you,
At your purest.
Death is speaking in the only way he can. And it's by taking our lives that he talks to us.
The sea sings,
Of long forgottened things.
And the sailor,
Listen and drinks.
Till his heart gets
Swallowed and sink.
All thing thing forgotten and lost in time.
All of us will be memories someday.
All these memories will be lost someday.
Some feelings are only felt
Adrift on the hair without being dealt.
But sometimes an eruption.
Sometimes a feeling to end all caution.

Empty words creeps up on the lips.
Means nothing. But a forceful whip.
But you end up dragging your silence.
And desolation speaks of your defiance.

Melancholia grabs hold of your marrow.
You cry without tears until tomorrow.
You choose silence to bring you no wound.
But wound it was, that silence groomed.
To what degree of mildness does this life revolves?
How do you feel something that is not?
Empty and bare that share of your care.
How consuming, this world of heathen decree.
Free from all grasp of truth.
And what that soothes, you imagined.

Crying in distress, this dress, an unrest.
For all you know comes from that end
Where you see no sea nor sand.
Lies that flies now comes to decide
What is true.
Your existence of deceit.

What of the world you helped grow?
Some adjusted in sorrow.
While others try to overthrow.
Come stand with me you called
When asleep was the world.

The sum of all the falseness.
Gave us a world of divide.
Where is He in all of these?
Why all the silence?
Is He a practice, an imagined?

— The End —