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Piyath Nov 2020
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 Feb 2021
From down the depths of setting clouds,
reaching to lift the earth around,
playing on shattered rays; sundown,
a heart bestows his love to love

Every breath reds his skin,
a ****** of lust; a shackle of roughs,
his kisses; a vile of touch,
his gaze; a blazing must

For oceans erupt in fondling clouds,
like a love that loves to love,
yes, his heart's for him and only his,
forever and ever, he'll be his only him
Piyath Sep 2023
Don't.
It's a lie to keep you wanting something that nobody is guaranteed to find in life.

It's a lie that keeps you unhappy even at your best, unsatisfied, wanting something unneeded to live a fulfilled life.

It's a lie to keep you insecure, second-guessing your purpose, even if there are a million reasons to look at yourself with pride.

It's a lie that haunts you because you let it become the ghost of your life.
I've lost hope and have arrived at a realisation that it is not a necessity anymore.
Piyath Sep 2020
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 2020
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 2020
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
Piyath Nov 2020
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 Nov 2020
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

— The End —