an oceanless shore
breathes moist vapors
and dreams of voiceless tides.
The beach is now a graveyard;
islands are the tombstones
white condolence flowers:
albatrosses that flew too high.
I sometimes feel sorry
for the rivers at the estuary.
now adjusted to a silence.
Dreams breathe in slumber,
terrorized by the dying light.
A peninsula of thoughts,
floats in the sea of night.
The sheets wrestled
with the aching limbs.
The flesh entangled together,
breathing a melodious hymn.
Don’t you want to sleep?
You must be tired.
We had our fun now,
you must retire.
Go now into an abyss,
to be dissolved unseen.
Heal your fractured memories,
from the blood of my peeled skin.
We shall meet again in summer,
when this air smells of rain.
as strangers, as lovers
but with our faces changed.
you are aloof,
as you tread down this slippery
perfumed mud,
embracing the river of life
that has forgotten
changing courses,
a long way time ago.
A flood is a dream for it.
a storm is like an unexpected orgasm.
Still, you tread down happily,
in your custom-made suits
wearing hand-stitched shoes.
You like others,
shall submerge in the sea
near a voiceless estuary
that amasses countless
unspeakable bodies
If only, you would have rattled those cages
and bled in those sharp-edged
rooms, embracing your individuality
then resilience would have blessed you
with fear; and believe me a little fear
with a pair of eyes either blooms to courage
or dawns to a beautiful death.
We all have been there,
alone and desolated.
With a mutual disregard
even for the infinite tones of the sea.
Counting the uneven days,
when a bowl of unexplainable rage
was refrigerated within the spaces
between the soul and darkness.
The numbers kept us hanging.
The fat man and the little boy,
slipped past some fucking numbers,
leaving behind annihilated dreams
sublimating to the zenith of a nuclear cloud.
The beginning of a countdown
is the recipe for your destruction.
tick-tock, tick-tock
do you feel it?
An abandoned house,
with the chronicles of death painted on the walls.
In the shadows of its doom, the Reaper lurks
and watches over with merciless eyes.
Waiting for the Omnipresent,
to whisper a name,
for he shall devour the soul,
without a question.
Everything that he touches,
transcends from space and time,
to the spaces between the space.
He has never loved a flower
or held a newborn,
he has never cried or even laughed
and now he is dying slowly.
Of all the lives he has taken,
the Reaper is now slowly dying out of life,
and I cannot say
whether It is painful
or whether is beautiful,
but it is sad.
It should be.
sun bathes in snow,
a few hues melted
to eventually freeze
in the sky
a crepuscular light,
a white grave of memories,
that smells like burnt wood
and fresh dark wine
by the fireplace
a white sheet of blindness,
over a glass of silenced darkness
fire devours
the aching coldness,
the melody,
appeases even gods,
the fangs of frost
grope the petals of the flowers,
some will perish this winter.
intertwining beauty and death
both of which I seek,
but at different times
in my life
drops are torturing my patience,
slowly traversing the spine,
In a frozen lake,
incensed with the dead past,
hymns and chants,
the mist and howls of winds,
kiss and dispose me,
a flesh impure for offering,
I believe
I lie on the ice naked with you,
seeking the last ounce of warmth,
through your curves,
I traced every inch,
in the dying moonlight,
till you slithered my neck,
and kiss me one last time,
with fear in my eyes,
an ocean of ecstacy in my heart,
and a smell of incense hemorrhaging my brain,
I sleep for eternity.
Writings to Heaven 