Each passing day
your ring's mark
digs it's grave in my skin,
not too long it's been
when our bodies tied knots,
when our souls married,
untied each other's knots,
untied each other from knots,
our tongues strangled
eyes sinking,
war of words,
or a lighthouse in floods
forbidden fruit in bloods,
lustings in the night's hoods,
immerse drops of me in the flesh
Oh! now a marriage of bloods.

- Diljeev

She is requite incarnate
the nemesis who filled me
for years with self hatred,
now she is mine to embrace,
it is everything I ever wanted
the answer to all my prays
and yet it almost isn't.
you see when you and yearning
share lifetimes of marriage
requite is ought to be the mistress,
the almost, budding into a miscarriage.
Yet I still love her,
is this how it'll always be?
a happy marriage with yearning
and the mistress, requite, the almost.
for lifetimes to come,
being my arch nemesis?

A fool for love
and for requite,
her golden brown mane
his fingers in tight,
souls were touched
in the night's quiet,
his tears roll a lane
her fingers in respite,
lover's etching their love,
sonnets they live
sonnets they write,
her golden brown mane
his fingers in tight,
then they sleep.

It's a room of gold lights
he is drawing lush nectar
the fear is drawing his blood
the admiration is enslaving
the fingertips are tracing
every inch,
through the cloudy nights.
The ears are savouring
each whisper,
they are savouring anatomies
perhaps the creator's
greatest mights,
Perishment is consuming him
he desires yet he doesn't
for what good is fulfilment
if it didn't birth from yearning.

She was the moon
then the sun rose,
daylight looked on,
as he buried away
his dear prose,
a grave to mourn?
or a seed was sown?
She was the winter
then the sun rose,
all the blood bled,
all the tears shed,
manured into the land,
on which they both wed,
and in the deep ends lied
his dear prose.

Wounds renewed
knives were sharp,
****** fingertips
play the harp,
for a joyous union
yet again,
could've been
entwined in
strands of her mane,
bathed in requite at last.
Bled in a chalice
not in vain,
to be sipped a little
each passing day,
to ease the pain,
to yearn away,
yet again.

Neither singing nor words,
nor humming with the birds,
neither giggles nor laughs,
nor the breaking of voices,
nor the rapid water quaffs
after heartfelt cries,
none of this is heard now
for we meet behind shut eyes,
I long for it all, but for now,
these mere glimpses suffice.
Hours spent in silences,
now they go in vain,
for even silences
can feel incomplete,
memories of her presence
are all that remain.

Sunlight from
the window pane,
sun rays sift through
strands of her mane,
they stroke my face.
She and
the sun collaborate
to reveal the brown
in my eyes,
little does she know
it's my love,
outed in glimpses
as the sun shines,
it's the dreams
of this autumn,
and how we'll be one
by then,
it's the brown of
the tree's leaves,
greeting us on
our usual strolls,
and when we lay
on each other's laps
on all the autumn eves.

Let's find refuge
on the misty clouds,
above the downpour
away from the crowds,
muffled in the sheet of stars,
I'll ****** your skin
like shrouds of silk,
under the dim light
of the moon lampshade.
I look up at the falling rain
and think of your hair
entwined in my fingers,
gliding leisurely without a care.
Sweet belle I hope to god,
before it all,
each one there is,
or if there even is one,
you find home in me,
in the face of
every storm to come.

A lost confidant
parting after a brief jaunt,
the killing anticipation
of getting down on a knee
in the middle of a restaurant,
waves of the fleeting flowing time
trickling down fingers of mine,
then again,
pleasures of the swim
come from the fear of
being hauled by
this torrent's whim.

I gave her my coat
for more than just a day,
to thieve her scent
and take her all the way
home with me,
now I rue each day,
it shouldn't have been my coat
but my skin instead,
I'd have thieved her blood
complimentary to the scent,
for unlike the scent,
the blood wouldn't have faded,
we'd both pass away in peace,
with our souls jaded.

Unaware sweet nothings,
her last words before
she parted,
perhaps the last whiff
of her mane
before an ordeal started.

Wartime looms
in my mind,
a war booms,
milady read every letter
respond to them all
before we reach our tombs,
your expressive breaths
far from being heard
in the moaning war's womb,
over the spiralling planes
and the enemy's role call,
your expressive breaths
far from being breathed
astray in this air of deaths,
the enemy's sword unsheathed.
Bright sky, night sky,
full moon, lifetimes later,
an encounter,
with no memory of the other
or how they were smothered
by the enemy who won.

"Can't help falling in love"
the Elvis classic played
they all except you swayed,
I could tell before I held you
how heavy your chest weighed
with all your heart in it,
all your longing for him ached
thus I came to your aid,
if this wasn't dreamy for us all,
if everyone was still standing tall,
your head resting on my chest
would've heard mine
aching for you,
then the moment passed
Mr. Presley rested with his last verse,
"But I can't help,
falling in love with you."

Her eyebrows
and their slow raise,
how her eyes grow big,
how her pupils dilate,
listening to me going
on and on about my trivialties.
Almost like a star
on the moon's surface,
the little black spot
on her face
above her lips
and it's slow raise,
how she smiles and laughs
like there's no tomorrow
in our days,
now all these visions are
what get me through mine,
the beauty of time.

It was all a dream?
Saving a mutt's breath
then a prolonged night
of hearing hers,
and now the night's death?
Lone cold bike rides
then her warm hugs,
and her scent on my shrugs?
When the moon made me feisty
I said how hard could the heist be
and stole the night sky for her?
feeling her hands lost in my mane,
with her and I being just the same
It was all a dream?

Potrait of a rainy night,
strands of her mane
are rain frozen in time,
the way the clouds and rain
immerse the moon in them,
so is her visage,
basking in her skin
through her mane,
the sole stars
in a night like this
are her eyes.
Words are this painter's brush
though none can sum up
how endlessly beautiful
her being is.

Chaos in the chambers
echoing all over dunsinane,
the lady screams
insane and inane,
thence I flee to the forest
to lay still on the grass,
where the nightingale sings
under the moon for hours,
the lady and her raven,
they all keep mum
in this little haven.

Shivers of my worlds,
rivers of my words,
ardent to have flown
in the serene valley,
your mind hath sown.
So much I want to tell,
more than silences sell,
ones you read oh so well,
sightless to the world
but I see you see it all,
behind the childlike innocence
is a mother wrapped in her shawl,
how you see the moon set,
in a way no one else does,
how you talk to the horizon
that follows,
how the stars are kids
playing in the night's lawn,
how they allign silently
as you look on,
as if they are your own.

When it all turns disdain
when it all seems to go in vain,
myriad sounds of her breathings
slither in my brain,
while I catch my own,
with her and her alone.
My heart and the waves racing,
cheery puppies chasing,
as they look at the sun sink
so do they,
in the warm laps of heaven herself,
as she hums, as she sings.

Me and my beret
oh so longed
for the scent of her mane,
as the King for his Queen
atop the Dunsinane.
Disappearance of the scent
from the beret,
how hastily it went,
on your departure's day.
The return is imminent,
with one of your own
resting on your mane,
all the days I yearned
must not go in vain.

Days of nights,
a night of mirages,
souls longed for massages
and then morning dawned,
revealing a lonesome stairway
in the sunniest day,
so were the nights once,
the same day's
pitch black decay,
until the moon rose
from bombay,
eternities swayed,
lives changed,
so long as the moon stayed,
days of nights,
a night of mirages,
souls that longed for massages
and then the morning dawned.

Just as the selfsame moon
and the selfsame night,
pinches of dawn and daylight,
the selfsame giggles,
and the selfsame little fights,
all as exquisite as the first imprint
on my eyes' white,
hold me closer, hold me tight,
there'll be nothing left to recite.
Hand in hand, arm in arm,
just like the sand glass,
in which time fleets,
it'd be nice to have known
the night in the flesh,
and the necklace on her neck
with it's moon beads.

Indeed a french beauté,
the most luminous of faces
and a black beret,
she paints to seize the moon
as it gently caresses the rivers,
not knowing that she herself is,
the waxing gibbous.

Palm trees, streetlights,
dim strolls and caffeine,
her words and giggles
inches closer to morphine
and oh so giddy are the nights,
the reality just doesn't intervene.

Moonlight on our skin,
our manes are akin,
where will this "fin",
my blood runs cold,
my sanity runs thin,
for it's the same stars
and the same moon
culprits of a déjà vu,
just hoping the dawn isn't soon,
hoping this one never ends,
we'll worry about the "fin",
when the moon descends.

Oh the peculiar village,
her eyes carved out
from her visage,
thieved just to
look at the moon
and the stars' lagoon,
for the moon isn't the moon
the night isn't starry,
when not seen from her eyes,
she who seems married,
to the night sky of course.

The sun set on the pash
clouds, dirt and ash,
a little ways down the road,
looking back at the odes,
it'll be remembered
How she brought
a corpse to feeling,
staring, giggling at his ceiling,
how she was winter,
then it rained.

The thespian's dream
a perpetual affair,
stage lights and
the smell of your hair,
for it can be a billion eyes
but that one pair,
is supreme.

Blanket and black coffee
Measly morning chills,
a longing for winter enstilled,
until I met winter in person
and man is she all the thrills.
Time stops when she walks
as if it were a frozen lake,
she smiles like a snowflake
and chuckles like the sun
on a winter day,
I've met winter in person
not having one bad day
anymore.

Lemon tea cake slice
pink orange sunsets,
she's alone with them,
as the sea looks on
with its trinkets,
and so do the pets.
A voice so euphonious,
but it comes at a price,
the night knows her well,
the moons and the stars entice,
a pleasant heart to heart,
must be a great sight.

butterflies and sugar rush
looking at her mane brush,
rustling of novel pages
the endless sea
sat by the porch she,
why?
there's arousal for the causal,
and what followed since?
the fruit seems forbidden
and looks a lot like quince,
the endless sea,
sat by the porch she
where do the waves go
we shall see.

Holily they allied
emerging from the dark,
him and the thespian inside,
the groom and the bride,
so is the story arc.
they whisper and hiss
"He has no one to call his",
well the herd can't be heard
call it marital bliss.
Not with his palms,
not when knelt,
only in his heart
can the missus be felt,
compels him to think
how it must be
to hold and be held,
call it the only miss.

Take me to the cemetery
where souls go to die
may just find
the catcher in the rye,
some pass with
ashes in the sky,
while the others leave
their anatomy blind.
A saint and a muse
none of them
deserved to die,
then why
the untimely goodbye?
The saint will lie
far from resurrection,
the muse will lie
blinded by misconception,
we may never find
the catcher in the rye.

I've returned to find,
she as I knew her,
had all perished,
who is she now?
What is she now?
A state of mind?
The smell of rain
to the blind?
Or to the deaf
night stars alligned?
Her concluding embodiment
is out there somewhere,
do I look for her in it?
Who will I find?
besides a stranger,
will she still be there
enshrined?

Closure is a hoax,
it'll take lifetimes to forget you
or perhaps just the one
if I tried,
no matter what it is I do
there you are,
my subconscious bride,
closure is a hoax,
it'll take lifetimes to forget you.

Endless voyages
but this one you go alone,
I did too
then I couldn't come home,
neither will you.
My exile won't go vain,
for it was your liberation
from unjust pain.

Pages be poured out,
be torn out books,
they all append with
you getting her looks,
how alluring she is
and will always be,
reborn each time
with no memory,
the seed once was
or the fruit it could be.
Thieving a mere sight
here and there
is worth every bit of
the herd's pity.

An outlander gone astray,
a mile for each day
is now the distance
we're away,
in her mind,
on the map's line.

Morrow's dawn
when I'm reborn,
the well known lad
will be long gone,
there aren't many
who'll mourn,
those who will
shouldn't for one,
the metamorph
will be who they
all should've known.
Blessing or a curse
I'll take it with
in all my lives,
the eternal longing
will be one of my wives
except even death
won't do us part.

And then there was
A cliff's brink,
leap into the canyon,
plunge into the gape
to end up in her lap
beneath the banyan
or in vineyards of grape,
without a think,
let her fingers
run through your mane,
each strand rustles,
perhaps it'll always be fallacy
reality isn't profane.