Trees of emerald and expectations,
taking root in dirt and damnation,
grow fruits flowing full of flirtation.

Children complain of chapped lips,
clinging to women's waning hips
as drunkards are in dire need of one last fix.

Suffering stomachs grumble
and morose mouths mumble
of a society that continues to crumble:

Demanding water of a well they dried,
without any tears, the people cried
for their way of life had died

in a world governed by greed,
while the people bleed
blood of toil and seed.

But power is now paper green,
and the forlorn farms stay pristine
while the people are lying in between
dying
and
death.

You are a shiny cup I found that drew me close, and willingly without measure or restraint I have continually poured myself into you...I'm thirsty now...

Your smiles, love, and presence fuel me,...but it'll be passion filled words, kisses and love making embraces that'll quench me... But you don't pour

Instead of pouring myself into you, I'll drip the drops of desire I hold for you, and ache for from you...then you might know what it is to thirst for more...to thirst for me...

We'll start the fire
in morning streets
with a flick-clip
on a matchbox
and light a trail
we made to steps
headed for a bed,
this time with no
extinguishers or
hanging fire exits.

Lovers are thirsty
Till they don’t drink the love potion
Their souls are aching
Till they don’t delve into each other*




© Amitav (Radiance)

To be addicts
we are fated
always thirsty
never sated.

Bliss in a cup
Coffee is required
similar to a drug
It keeps us wired.

The tree branches sway back and forth in freedom,

teasing and taunting me while I lie in my own self-pity.

This eternal thirst I have cannot be quenched.


A pole’s flag violently swaying in a hurricane

as it bends and hurls,

sick with despair,


I snap out of my thoughts and emit a sigh, a moan;

which it is

a mystery

I’ll never solve.


I cannot tell if I am frowning or weeping,

my heartbeat picks up, I bite my nails.


This disease is a spiritual presence,

haunting all those who have it.


I lie awake and think of them:

the ones that I admire and can comprehend.

Us poets, compare one thing to another,

but we ourselves are truly the hardest to understand.