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 Dec 2011 Ana
HR B
another night.
 Dec 2011 Ana
HR B
When I am done here,
I will be given to whom I owe everything:
Earth.

My body will become one with the soil,
and so will the invisible scars you've left me with;
and botany will bloom,
and a garden will flourish from my body,
thus making you and I:

forever.

Long after I am gone,
people will walk by at this time of night,
and if they are of the observant type,
they will see the glowing pedals in the moonlight,
and they will pause and whisper,
"Wow.
So lovely.
This has been grown will love."

And, silently, they will wonder,
"Who keeps this up?
Who trims and preens and cares for it?"

And the wind will rustle the leaves on nearby trees,
and a Black Eyed Susan will blossom before their eyes,
and they will utter a small disbelieving,
"Oh."

And that small two letter one syllable will dance
off of their tongue and into the night air,
and Luna will smile,
and that person will keep walking,
and the waves will roll on,
and the Sun will rise again.
 Mar 2011 Ana
Shashank Virkud
The wind blows hard tonight. The wind takes every bit of warmth from my marrow and doesn't bring any of it back. No, this is not an art that you have mastered exclusively, as much as that may disappoint you.  

Ninety six days culminate and rot within my intestines. The feeling, well, the feeling is like ****, but the images interpreted are more than appealing, beautiful I would say.

I don't stay at home anymore; I go to other people's homes and stay there because it fascinates me. It fascinates me for so many reasons, expressions, to name a few.

Keeping true to the convention of keeping true to the convention, I shed a layer of skin when I threw the old tea box full of photographs from the terrace this morning.

The air smelt of coriander and fresh mud, fresh rain. I took it into my lungs as a restatement of my existence but it felt smug and in vain when winter's wisdom slapped me as I exhaled. The pain was a harsh reminder; I was real. My face was red more from the shame than the sting of it.

The whole occurrence was organic, and the memory makes me laugh. Some say to me that I'm made to laugh easily, that I laugh like a fool. I'm a bad hand out of a deck of cards. I am dealt with. It's all in my stars.

In comparison, sardonicism has never known a friend, but I've had one or two. Most people are hopeless to me; I am unplugged. 
You speak to me, you want me to be connected. You have a longing in your voice, not so much for me, but for the thought of me rejected.

I had stars in my sights the nights you ignored me and made my hands your ******. Time, and time again, you justify keeping me pressed against your window, believing every inclination is adored. 

Time has passed, these creases will stay forever in my corduroys. The fragmented fire wood we never got to burn and those forgotten chapters of childhood still litter my mother's yard.

Maintaining a reserved tone, tensing those muscles in your face, for what? Try dying twice and then you will see that there is no magic, no mystery behind the way things are happening, especially here.

Happy to be hurt, ironic, the pain in my neck reminds me of you.
 Mar 2011 Ana
Shashank Virkud
Bittersweet, get me going.
                     hold your breath over my neck,
      
                             it really

         lets me go,

                         twists my tongue.
Talk to me
                  like an angel
but,
                                
                         touch me                
like a convict.
 
                        disrespect me,

              neglect me,
abuse me,

but,
              with a voice I can't refuse.

Bittersweet, like a rose infused.


Bittersweet, keep me going.

        my heart
flutters and flails when I hear you in my ear.
      
      Whisper me *******

but,                
                       ***** me

like a ******.

                    ****** me,

             reduce me,
fool me, 
            but  Bittersweet,                      
        ­            make me feel *****.
Like you're in school
         and I am turning thirty.
 Mar 2011 Ana
Shashank Virkud
Silk in a serenade,
each second becomes a day.
Just stay for the blink of an eye.
Now I have a reason to lose
control of my breathing.

Sympathy in the strings I play,
not so much in the things I say,
no matter how hard I try.
Unaware of the passing season,
am I staying or am I leaving?

Cornerstones crumble,
I don't trust my senses enough.
I've got a feeling nothings' real.
Now I have a reason to
really start screaming.

Polished brass,
shattered glass in the garden.
Examine the facts yet abolish
the past, a history lesson isn't
something I'm going to believe in.

The creases in time are
seamless in my sleep.
A fragile frame of mind,
I hate to suppress it. I'm inclined
to ask, am I awake, or am I dreaming?

— The End —