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Piyath 1d
The prayer from a distance
a fusion of illusions, a summit of delusion,
the lustrous tones binding hopes--dissolved.

The prayer from a distance
Again a vivid desire,
too uncouth to confront.
A rivalling mist searching
amidst,
many mouths' discerning noises,
looking for a crescent
to leap down,
to grasp
what is fading;
a solemn soul's core
of another's loving prayer.
Pray for the world to heal, to give strength and good health back to the owns who are fighting Covid 19 in hospital beds right now, as we speak.
Piyath 2d
Ah! You're already here
I've been waiting dear
This you have to hear
It's somethin' to adhere

It's tongues dried
and lungs fried
Not other way around
And I don't refund

So let's get down
to what you want
The tastes I own;
the ones you'll flaunt

Cracked bones
and hacked jaws
Charred toes
and bottled gore

From pickled hearts
to private parts
Just say the name,
I've got it all

Just take your time
and think it through
And when it's right
I'll come find you

It's been a while
Did you decide?
Just ditch your pride
and speak your mind

So it's 'crispy skin'?
'kay, I'll let you in
Let's taste your kin
Yes, it's not a sin
I don't support cannibalism, this is just a poem in the perspective of a fictional cannibal introducing the reader to it's darker depths.
Piyath 3d
Tresses of hair cascading behind
Gentle footsteps caressing her pride
Yards of white tulle and satin hide
her moon-soaked stature; so divined

A glowing aura she emanates; so bright
Each step she takes spawns ripples in time
Her winged soldiers waltz mid-flight
as she sings and summons the frozen clime

Her sight; a blessing or a curse, unsure
Her beauty; chilling, yet a promiscuous lure
A poem embodying the harbingers of
a December winter
Piyath Sep 28
Lulling to the cicadas screeching
nightly
Bulging dew drops shimmering
brightly
Tree limbs grasping moonlight
tightly
Fireflies flickering ever so
slightly
Fairies tickling flowers; so
sprightly
Centaurs galloping bare, but
knightly
It's true that I should admit
rightly
Nights at the grove are nothing but sightly
The beautiful nights that make a poet's mind wonder into the deep deep lusts of illusive myths and the aspiring grace of nature at its darkest.
Piyath Sep 16
He's dire; he's uncanny
Stuck in my dead body
He's a brute; he's a boar
He's brewing my gore

Breathing my breath
gorging my soul
picking my scabs
and licking my throat

Pastors; squealing nonsense
Thick with smothering incense
Shamans; howling vengeance
Maggots and rotting pungence

Nibbling your dimple
he bruises your temple
Twisting your ankle
he craves you ample
Piyath Sep 12
Through the witching hour she cries

Veiled stories flood her mind

swept by mellifluous tones of lust

Still, conscience breaks through her skin

Traces of fingertips and lips

patterned on her supple skin

Yet her mind wanders; mistakes,

longing to touch the bottom

a bottomless abyss of sins

— The End —