To define an exit, is to summon a purpose, I defined snow, without touching it. It has never left me since.
In the dreams, under the sky robbed of stars, in this utter disturbance of existence. I wished you never painted me as a mosaic, as well as I do.
My hands coloring with hues of autumn, winter and unkissed summer, because to fail you shall be the end of my potrait. the symmetry in love is astounding.
Thousand touches on those brown eyes still unfelt shall yield their numbness: an art before departure, a history before invasion. a cause without a purpose.
This winter ends today the glass panes conjure a colorful silence : yellow, a touch of comfort, when it travels back, this premonition of forgetfulness shall shine on you.
Lay these eyelids on purpose, today, at least What is to be lost? Than a fickle dream and city made of failed purposes with us as the lone survivors, building cities as we forget, what is like to be loved, without words.
What is it? That draws a knife through the heart? Is it the separation between them? The anonymity brewing between them? The pause of decisions? The thousand veins that weigh down the feeble heart? The slithering silver edges tasting of unforgotten dreams ?
You need to draw it once. The curse of repetition begins with an imperfect try. Be brave enough, Not for the blood, Not for the teared arteries, Not for the sun that never sets on the red river for forgiveness.
Sound and Light aren’t different entirely, nobody shall ever get used to distance. I wait for your sound, without touching your face, you become an echo, the reverberation: simply unbearing
I devour an apple, graciously, of the orchards blooming softly, extinguished they shall be, for the valley of snow, bows to no heart. our pulses prisoned to thoughts.
In a mountain somewhere where cold spares no one, It’s all dew and despair, the hands who pick these apples, have read no verse for equality it’s a serpent without colour, that teases our thoughts to an unfulfilling macabre.
how soon we have evolved to non-existence, of the dream of the fellow on the cost of furlough of subsidiary resilience.
Tied and blindfolded, she is now eager to dissolve within the sheets; like a prisoner fantasizing a sentence all night.
her’s lacey panties have given up: with a taste of defeat still on them all over the floor. The pink nipples seek a thirst for untouched flesh. She drowns your tongue slowly with hers and everything blurs to memories slowly. She takes your tongue between the legs and the memories eviscerate to moans and desires. Till you have given her what she wants. You are now the prisoner tonight. Enjoy your sentence slowly.
I feel, I am out of love poems, they have trespassed my diary as if, someone blamed the toes of humanity for it’s biased existence.
This earth, when it traces my toes. finds a flood of remembrance. the souls it walked with, still brewing and adamant. the nectar : my heart is now a mirror the statis shall last it’s demise. We are the last two birds,
Tell me, how to forgive a feather for betrayal of flight.
To extinguish a love: A Manual. Many people tried to write it, in the rains of acceptance. Ruins from Nostalgia to Acceptance, Still hear the echoes, of failure and despair.
There was no love poem There was us. It was just words. The light was still as black, as the day we slept together, hoping for a dawn. despite all the odds. never knowing why.