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she  is
          an eagle on the wing,
he is
          the wind on whose carpet she is buoyant;
they both depend on each other's might
to be together, they are conscious,
a little too much.
The higher she goes
she is beyond his ken,
the more he holds
her powerful wings down,
to control and limit,
she is more than a captive,
without her true expression.
They are
passionate lovers,
unaware of making
each other dependent,
and believe
they are in a perfect relationship.

When would they learn,
to make freedom their
true and trusted friend.
Perfect hands, she has             
     like no other,
love is the sheen,
       her mobile fingers exude,
                               in her hands
                                          I am malleable and ductile,
                                  she crafts me
                                              as a piece of Hellenic art.
Lighting sparklers
in each other's eyes,
in a celebration of pretence
                             and deceit,
They drink fine sparkling wine,
dine, dance and ravel
make love again and again;
two insatiable serpents-
in perpetual heat,
spitting copious venom,
till it becomes evident,
that not a drop, is left.
                                       As dawn break out,
                                        post-****** hatred reigns,
                                         they, start to fight each other,
                                        without slightest hesitation,
                                        where does love figure in this life of zombies?
                                        empty wine bottles come handy,
                                       feeling thankful to the orgiastic nights,
                                       they make good  use of all that.
and,
when the heat dies down,
they kiss and make up,
sob, hug and apologize, two nincompoops,
like programmed emotion machines,
And how awful!
they start the next round with gusto,
all over again!
The morning sun, peeping in,
would find it hard to believe,
this utterly shameful game,
going on day in and day out.
In the cinnamon garden, hand in hand we strolled,
when dusk painted our hearts with crimson deep;
with a doting  look, you brought my flame alive,
*magic light, aromatic breeze, your eyes, aha! bliss
Cinnamon, cardamom, nutmeg, cloves, pepper, ginger..we grow  all those spices in our gardens,
the aromatic breeze in theses  gardens create such magic in seasons of love..
Never complains
do you
you bird of a feather
jesus incarnate
you so sweet and perfect
like a little lamb
chewing on cud
loving life like
a kite in the sky
so high
bit fragile
don't you think,
made of paper
was once a giant oak tree
tall and strong
sturdy
reduced to paste
liquid
put through rollers
dyed
now flimsy
enough to fly
enough to rip
at the very mention
of wind
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