Gradually I fail to fall in love so do my attempts to write poems It's not that they are connected, love and poetry you and me now and then. But they conjure, haphazard evenings and revolting senses. The void, that takes over like a weed looking for excess.
The tunes you play for me are brown. With souls walking in head scarf. Short and hump. Climbing hillocks of round stones. Faceless, like extended life There is a tunnel of rails Murmuring the distant pace Heartbeats in summer. Folks of the altitude. Strolling children from heaven. Baby curls Like swings of amazons. A single bloom, yellow in a pale grey canvas Thick skies Heavy like void, of your pangs. Burial ground. Silver moon. Withdrawing lives. Slumbers of yesterdays. Glow worms. Wind. Strokes I fail to play.
Jesus, crucified in an altar facing the sea Desires, Prayer beads Rain down your skin as you walk, into the endless gaze of a body sprouting blood You turn away, from the wickfires, glorifying a sacrifice, and face the monsoon waves Love, leaves the shore again and again Droplets from the altar flow past your breath filling the waters The sea and the sky, Pale blues, spilling over each other You smile, as you notice, a million crossing overs wetness over the sandbanks yellow lights over eyes, closed sky over your purpose, and My longings, over your abundance
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