You can't hold the short arm of the clock
and call it yesterday.

My eyes feel very vulnerable in the moment just like yours when you glance upon me. Thoughts of you keep floating in this room like ghosts ready to possess me and throw me down on the bed and make love to me. I think I was right when I told you about the wind touching me in all those places which are rightfully yours. The howling, barbaric, digressive wind who takes your place beside me every night and makes me moan as I sleep. Lover, won’t you claim your mistress back from the embrace of the air, from the dead of the night? I breathe. Silent restless sighs. My eyes wander away into the woods of tall words and unguided, lose track of time and disappear away.

These woods are of dark myriad words
With huge canopies and a mossy floor,
And bogs and mires,
And ancient carcasses,
Undeserving of funeral pyres.

A wooden tree house
Lies atop those forgotten branches
Where resides a queer beast
Called “Soul”.
She is as faithful as she is fretful.
She is worrisome and lonesome.
She has few things,
Just some.

Sometimes,
She bleeds poetry.
And the vacuum of her eyes,
Resembles the tinted void of the skies.
The sunlight could flow through her.
Unadulterated.
Untransformed.
And resurrect more trees
From the decaying pyre,
Of memories.

Pink, green, yellow and blue
Are shades of a silent hue,
Who look at her face
And stare enraptured,
At what she becomes.
A terrible travesty,
Yet a beautiful catastrophe.

The wooden walls of her suntorn tree house, on the corner of bamboo wo(o/r)ds are studded with gems of lichen. Damp, ***** and delicate is the green of the Soul. It is unfriendly out there where she treads undaunted and unclothed, sometimes resting her back against the slithering cold of the disquiet walls. All this so she could lick her fingers and touch the raw of her vertebra. She rubs her bones against defenseless bodies, writhing against each other.

Soul
In the woods of words.

Soul
Bellicose,
Domineering,
Salacious.

Soul,
With a potbelly
And a twisted smile,
That could conceive
Insects
As she spoke.

Yet,
Soul,
Who could
Filter
The Sunlight.

Little flowers dot her face. Wild flowers from weeds she would not let live, so she bereaved them of their flowers. The forests throb with the excitement of her whimsy. The sunlight grins remembering all the ways in which her monstrous glory falls apart in front of him and all the places he could illumine by trapping her. He has trapped her into carrying his s(u/o)n everywhere, but never visit. The winds mock her and play with her hair and perversely caress the belly that nurses the sun’s child.

Poor Soul,
Tiny Soul,
So brutally Young.

Angry Soul,
Humiliated Soul,
Disgruntled
And foul.

Her vulnerable eyes wander away into the woods of tall words and, unguided lose track of time and disappear away.

Love,
You have left me miserable.

And,
It breaks my heart,
And inspires
Tears in my eyes,
All the ways in which
I am still
The person
I have secretly decided
To loathe.

The winds
Have travelled in all directions,
Known and unknown,
For the both of us.

Sometimes it has kissed my lips,
Sometimes licked your fingertips.
Such is the brazen insidiousness
That touches our venality.
At all times.

The Stars,
The Earth,
The wind,
Your mouth,
And my fingertips,
Are all essentially,
The same entity.
Decorated in the nothingness.
Of their ******.

The horizon lies asleep in a grey blanket
In a sea of myriad figures,
And an unimaginable silhouette.
The engineering of black feathers,
Sets ablaze hazy azure weathers.
The Art Decorates Towers,
Like giants with arms outstretched,
Look down commanding superiority
Over the volatile beauty of the wretched.

Who branded this Pandora’s Box to be garbage?
Stop turning your faces away
Like this is some butchery,
Or an abhorable carnage.
The dogs have repeatedly protested against the injustice
The heavy wind suppresses their voices and entices
A seduction of inarticulate silence.
Brothers who embrace us,
Have known nothing of such malices’.

Only the birds are left unenchanted;
Because they fly too high to be pervaded.
I hear children’s voices
And mothers’ too,
And taste the flies and insects,
And all the devils they shoo;
Because they understand not the complexities of a civilization,
They have never rendered their thoughts,
Never undergone no filtration.
The unconquerable spirit of this world,
Has made them savage,
Their claws curled.
In the heat, in the light,
In the plight
Which brings the cold night.

The sunlight here is too dense to penetrate,
Therefore it unabashedly spills over,
No opening,
Just a gateless emptiness on which to concentrate,
Lives and lives here,
Forever proliferate.
With none to remember their faces,
And no mortal soul to commemorate.

Dust settles upon the fingertips which talk.
This place is deemed unfit,
Unsuitable for a walk.
Yet birds, animals and humans alike,
Have stated their preference of what they like.
This land is perpetually theirs to ****.
Passion resides here,
In this unintended landfill.