under beauty in the making
be it falling in mass
be it raining in petals
be it life-bringing
luscious orange drops
be it the child
of Eros and Psyche
be it me
desisting from life
be what it may, it is not spared
the comfort of kissing the ground
Like a mule
that gently learnt the art of escape
my thirst went rambling
the narrow streets
it licked the crevices
of cobblestone, the marble floors
I ****** a peach
and it was bitter
yet it's unknown, my rose,
if I chewed or spat it out.
clusters of you
in the notes that slide
from hazy fingers,
confusions inherently slow
for the skin to witness,
do we hide in the repetition
does it clump together,
the amalgam distilled;
there is no us, nor
for the keys, nor for the strings_
and then, something happened.
the cringe-worthy howl that was heard at the footstep of the hill scratched the wind and ripped the clouds open; fistfuls of rain punched their way through the currents; the bridge to the kitchen, a wooden airborne mess.
like on a sailboat in a bottle, the landscape was refracted as gloomy shades of blurred.
this wasn't the mightiest storm his sanctuary had witnessed in his 5 years of solitude. it was simply the one. he would leave first thing in the morning, under dog's weather if must be, following the signs through the broken forest.
I can't take it being in the same city,
I say as I scratch my scalp till it bleeds,
as you, cumin-infused silent lullaby,
torturing my dreams, my wake, my morals.
We left to sift the world's full potential,
my fake healing blooming tenderly
in the arms of pirates and schizophrenics;
you gone, me happy,
glass half full of songs and thorns and zen-ness,
cozy in a home all rearranged
to the feng shui of you'll never walk in here again
so you don't see me healthy, childishly cheerful,
grown accustomed to still missing you
each time I open a door and you're not there.
I fill your shirt warmly
but lifting the veils of reason
we're lovers in the ****
intolerant to any lack of beauty.
the dirt under our fingernails
the only treasure map we follow
of whispers that start and end
on our backs being caressed
by strangers that hide
in the folds of history