For some they might be brave,
The ones whose poetry is incomplete,
Without the necessary F-words.

But for me such poets are not poets,
They are the lost souls bent on it,
Abusing the readers no soul they save.

Sans any rhyme scheme or structure,
Do they not aimlessly scribble,
I wonder if they learnt F-words in vivo.

[You can hear the air moving the 
 l e a v e s  of the    
p     a  l    m          t      r  e  e     s.
Last rays of sun and it’s June 3]

    
We walk on a  white-washed street and
Forget Me Not flowers on the fences screaming this is your new world.
You are that world, your eyes are Portofino in the middle of a neighborhood of coins.

We are walking and you stop because you look at a window of someone, while I was (I was) fixing the shouts of light on your temple, living the new world.

[All my cracks filled with water]

It’s warm pleasant, we walk, seeing life taking and not just wishing,

-^^^-
   we have excelled    
in the plastic world.

I stood by the **^use with the most beautiful garden, I touched bird in paradise and you say that it’s [our garden]

And the world fell to knees
seeking grace how
our love proceeds
Everyone shouting big
their mouths
either revolution
either crise