I wanted to be real,
To be a rain in winters,
Whom they cannot despise,
love or forget,
to be a chaotic origin of resentment,
mysterious, magical and everything in between
I was a tofu once,
my liver poisoned by
daily savouring of pure alcohol of dreams,
It didn’t kill me then,
It didn’t kill me now.
Bring your hands and choke
the light within me,
Turn me into a grass spilled with fresh soaked blood,
turn me into a a galaxy of restlessness
with kisses of pause and serenity eloping madness.
I shall write all about it.
Till your eyes melt in dreams of forgetting me,
Again and again,
You poor, dreamer of death.
One thought on “Sins of a Dreamer”
This piece of poetry is an absolute paradox.
Woven and knitted in a string of beautiful imagery yet brimming with Stygian darkness, laced with such passionate desires and adorned with some gorgeous metaphors.
However, more than the analysis, this piece demands to be felt with a yearning impetuousness.
An organised chaos!
I have not read such a bewitching piece for a while.